


Amor Fati

by Kittenly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fictional Religions, Genre-Typical Violence, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 96,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenly/pseuds/Kittenly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For generations, an uneasy and unhappy truce has existed between the gods of heaven and the daemons of earth. Tensions are starting to build, and nothing but war sits on the horizon. Then, on the longest day of the year, a boy is born, only to be abandoned hours later. He is found by the gods, who name him Alfred and raise him among them after he is foretold to bring about victory for the gods in the coming war. This all seems well and good until Alfred befriends Arthur, a daemon of earth. Despite their unlikely friendship, Fate marches on--and the Daemon war is ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

A storm howled through the mountains, carrying the howls and screams of daemons. It was their night, after all. The longest night of the year; the night when the sun died and the people prayed for its return. Snowy wind raged through the pine-dotted foothills, cracking branches and sending boulders tumbling with an eerie, joyful laugh. Among the trees was a walled city, protected by imposing iron gates. The rough metal wound around the topmost timbers that made up the containing wall, a slight deterrence against what lurked outside.

  
Within the ironbound town, the houses were dark, not a gleam of fire light in any of the small windows. The wind whipped up the main street, breaking against a towering structure of wood and metal. A temple, raising above the walls of the town, defiant against the wind. Above the heavy iron doors hung a spindly ten pointed star, a symbol of unity, of devotion, of the gods everlasting protection. Inside, the entirety of the town huddled around a priest, each holding a candle and keeping vigil until Pakram, god of the sun, would be reborn and banish the darkness and the shrieking daemons from the winter air.

  
In one corner of the temple, a woman screamed. Her brow was slick with sweat and her eyes hazy with pain. She called for help, begged for someone, anyone. Her body convulsed as white hot pain shot through her lower back. She continued, voice gradually getting weaker as her blood spilled over the floor. The faithful, mere paces away, heard and flinched at every shout, and all glanced at least once in her direction and placed their hands over their ears. But none made a move to comfort the poor, cursed woman. With a final scream, she fell silent, the silence soaking through the church like the woman’s blood into the rough floorboards. The faithful kept themselves bent in prayer until dawn light began to filter through the high windows. The daemons’ night was over, for another year, and now it was time to celebrate, to drink to the return of the sun.

  
It was the priest who approached the woman. She was still. No breath lifted her side. The priest stared at her pitiful form, so small in death. He wondered what she had done, to receive such a curse. He turned the curse itself. He prayed that it was dead. He turned over the baby, silent thus far. He went to lift it, brush some of its mothers blood off its forehead when it opened its — his — eyes. The priest gazed into those sky blue eyes. Horror slipped down his spine. The thing was cursed, born on the night of daemons.  He would have to take it out of the city and let the elements take care of it. It was law; it was doctrine. As if he sensed his fate, the baby began to cry. The priest washed him, dried him with a rough towel, and prepared him for his death. The boy never ceased crying, and the priest made no effort to sooth the accursed child. After the customary bath was complete, he wrapped the infant in a thin blanket and carried what must have been the loudest child in all of the mortal realm out of the city.

  
The priest couldn’t help but admire the glitter of snow in the new sun’s light. He trudged through the deep pine woods to where he could, with as little conscious as possible, leave the child to die. He laid the child to rest in a frosty clearing surrounded by thick fir trees. The snow was windblown and hard, crunching with every step the priest took. He didn’t think it was possible, but the baby began to weep harder. Guilt twisted the priest’s heart. He could just take the child back, pretend it was a mistake. But no, he couldn’t. The town relied on him. He could not inflict a child of the daemons’ night on them. Guilt burning his throat, he left the child.

  
The baby continued to scream as loud as he could until the sun began to set. He grew weaker, cries fading into faint hiccups. Tears frozen to his white face, he settled into silence. The moon peaked over the tops of the trees, and with it came a light laugh. The baby opened his eyes, searching for the voice. When it began to fade, he found his voice again, and began wailing. The laughter stopped. Soft hands encircled the child, cradling it to the chest of a tall woman. Despite the cold air, she wore only a silver shift, bound just above her waist. It shimmered in the moonlight, a match to the silver glow. She swept a long white braid over her shoulder and shifted the baby to a more comfortable position. She cooed to the child, her voice like midsummer’s rain. He calmed in her arms, and stared up with his wide blue eyes. She smoothed his brow, trailing her fingers through his thin blond hair and over a small piece that decided to stick straight up. She knew what he was, a child of the daemons’ night, cursed, better off dead. But maybe, she pondered, it was worth it to make sure.

  
Still cradling the child, she turned on her heel and found the invisible tie to her own world, to Caelei. She stepped through the marble gateway and made her way through the mountain passes towards the dwelling of the seer.

  
She wound her way to the entrance of a cave. Deep green moss huge over the opening. The baby shifted uncomfortably as the smoky cavern air stung his eyes; he let out a small whimper.

  
A stooped man in nothing but a ragged grey robe sat with his back to the entrance, casting stones into the large fire before him. The goddess dipped her head in respect. “Circalous, you are granted the gift of sight, I beg you—“

  
“Why Arlya?” said a sandpaper voice. “Why have you brought the spawn of the night to the home of the gods? He is cursed. Why didn’t you leave him? It’s only harder if you get attached. There is nothing you can do.”  

  
The goddess clutched the child tighter to her chest. “He’s a baby! He cannot be blamed for his own birth.”

  
The old man whipped toward the goddess. He bored into her with cataract coated eyes set deep above a crooked nose. “Of course it’s not his fault, but I felt it; you felt it. The very air crackled with the black magic of the daemons. None were left untouched, least of all this fresh life with his first breath so tainted. We’ve seen it over the eons, those born on the death of the sun will forever be cursed, hated, wild.” He spat on the last word.

  
“Prove it,” said Arlya, her voice quiet and cold.

  
“What?”

  
Arlya glared at him over the child, every facet of her face tight with rage.  “Prove it. Look into his future. See what he is to become.”

  
“There is nothing to prove, nothing to be done. He is—“

  
“Prove it.”

  
The god stepped down, defeated. “Your affection shall be your demise. I shall look.”

  
The baby whimpered again. Arlya clutched him to her breast. The god of prophecy turned back to his fire. The shadows around the cave began to twist, dancing with the magic of the god. He jerked above the fire, shuddering as Fate moved through him. His voice rang through the cave:  
  
Daemons howl and pierce our very core,  
As order crumbles—Gods, your power wanes!  
Now time grows still, a breath before the war  
When Moon will spatter blood o’re silent plains.  
  
But plucked from mountain snows will he be brought  
To mountains on the sky, to Caelei, God-home.  
He shall here learn the world, and dreams, and thought,  
Though whispers in the sky call his blood to roam.  
  
A gift the gods give naught shall his guide be  
Though deep he shall fall, down to daemon’s heart.  
Returned from purgatory, eyes ready to see,  
He’ll take up metal cold to play his part.  
  
Against this chaos he will lead the quest:  
The final vict’ry by sword of th’ God-Blest.  
  
The god sunk back down to the floor and the lights returned to normal. Though the cavern was uncomfortably warm from the fire, Circalous shook.

  
“It’s impossible. The gods not able — the daemons in all these years. There is no way — a human of all—“

  
A triumphant gleam shone in Arlya’s silver eyes. “Are you perhaps you suggesting might have seen wrong?” she said innocently.

  
The seer stopped his sputtering. His entire face flushed. “Insolent woman! I have seen since the beginning ages of this earth. Never once have I been wrong. This time must be no different.”

  
If gods were anything, they were prideful. Circalous would never admit to the possibility of his prophecy being wrong. No matter what he had thought before. Fate was never wrong. It was a law of the universe.

  
The god returned to his fire, resigned. “What will you call him?”

  
The goddess’s eyes turned down on the boy in her arms. He had drifted to sleep, bright eyes tucked behind his lids. She knew he was special, though she never dreamed to this extent. He would be their savior, their hero.

  
“Alfred. His name will be Alfred.”


	2. The Court of the Gods

On the highest peak of Caelei stood the court of the gods. It was carved out of the grey, dead stone that made up the terrain of the realm. Ten pillars came together at the mountain's peak, each with intricate iron decorations. The metal twisted, thin and web-like into various shapes: one pillar was entirely covered in a tangle of elegant flowers; another was wreathed in solid flame; one was twirled into menagerie of wild animals; spun metal humans impaling each other on sword and spear adorned another. The court was majestic, if cold.

Footsteps rang across the polished marble floor as the gods entered between the pillars. Engraved in the marble below where the pillars came to a peak was the ten pointed star. Ten gods took their seats, and the discussion began without ceremony.

"Let us be blunt," said Pakram, sweeping towards the center of the meeting hall, the morning sun catching his copper hair. "Winter is upon the mortal realm once more. The daemons are growing restless as our power wanes with the days. The mining towns of the mountains are already under strict curfew as night seems when the daemons are most comfortable. The high daemon of the mountain range is gathers his minions. His attack will be swift. We must take action—"

"Why?" Came a cry from across the hall. A tall woman dressed in scarlet armor stepped into the circle. "Why should we focus on a bunch of whining miners? There are more important people to protect. What about my soldiers posted down in the southern plains for the winter? The harlot of a high daemon who dwells there is as loathsome as any other. My soldiers need protection more than your priets."

A third god stood and placed his hand on the seething war goddess. She glared up at his deathly pale face and his red eyes. The bow and quiver slung across his back did nothing to lessen his dangerous appearance. "Now Daka," he cooed into her ear. "Where would your lovely fighting machines be without iron? You know it's the best for fighting daemons. Just thing of their burning flesh against your blade. The metal came from somewhere, and some daemon wants to destroy the people who get it for us. Are you going to let him?"

She glared at him, her desire to keep her precious soldiers safe for war and massacre struggled with her hatred for daemons.  Hatred won. She gave the other god a smile. "That most of the miners are also hunters has no bearing over this, does it, Gilbert?" she said sarcastically.

"Of course it does. I just happened to turn it into a logical and convincing argument." Daka shivered at his words.

A snicker echoed through the halls. Gilbert glared at its source: a god, handsome by any standards, mortal or immortal. His golden hair was half tied up in the back while the rest fell loose around his face. He reclined on the throne, a thick violet cloak draped over him. "My dear Gilbert," he began, "I am not sure whether to be threatened by your encroachment on my position as the god of love or be proud that my expertise in the arts of love has finally rubbed off on you." 

"Can't possibly be the first option, Francis, as I have no problem getting my hands a little bloody--which you've never been able to face bravely."

Daka laughed and Francis flushed, but before he could respond, the Arlya rose, concern etched over her face.

"Alfred is lost again," she said.

There was a communal sigh. Many of the gods were beginning to doubt the boy had any real use. It had been seventeen years since Arlya had brought him to Caelei and so far, he had shown no signs of any talent that would be useful in the Daemon War.

"Leave him, Arlya. Let the human find his own way out for once," said Gilbert. "Either that or he'll starve to death and we'll finally be rid of him. It's not as if he good at anything."

The goddess stood to her full, rather impressive height, silver dress fluttering around her. "He has talent, even if your disgust towards humans makes you blind." 

Pakram repressed a sigh. It seemed like every time they held court something would drive Arlya into a defensive fury over the boy she found.

"Perhaps he just needs something, a gift, that would help prove that to you," Arlya said.

"Arlya, the prophesy specifically says a 'gift the gods give _naught,_ '" said Francis.

"I see, does prophesy now fall to the god of the arts, Francis? What will you claim next? War? We all know how skilled you are in that field," said Arlya, a cruel smile spreading across her face as Francis paled. "Alfred just needs a gift. We cannot expect him to end the Daemon war trapped in the canyons of Caelei."

She held the gods' attention. Her words made sense, for who was to say that the gift described in the prophesy was the only gift the boy needed?

"What is your proposal?" asked Prakam.

"He is to be our messenger."

* * *

 

A tall young man slumped against the rough side of the canyon. He had been wandering in circles all afternoon, hopelessly lost. His white tunic was smeared with grey dust and his ends of his dark breaches were starting to stick to the back of his knees. He rubbed under his glasses with the back of his hand, cursing to himself.

"Seventeen damn years and I still can't find my way from one side of this stupid mountain to the other." He ran his fingers through sunny blond hair. It really was no use, no matter how hard he tried, Alfred could never tell the different paths from each other. The only thing he was sure of was that it was getting late. The sun had slipped out of sight from the narrow piece of sky that peaked out from between the great cliffs that lined the paths. Either that or he had somehow gotten turned around and was now going north rather than east, which was entirely possible. He tugged himself off the ground and wandered down the path, his fingers dragging along the cold stone. When he came to the next fork, he picked a direction at random, hoping either that he'd find his way to Kiku by sheer dumb luck or, the more likely option, one of the gods would take pity on him and guide him out.

Thankfully for Alfred, he was found sooner rather than later. He had only been walking for another few minutes when a hand dropped onto his shoulder. After yelping in surprise, he turned toward the god, though Alfred knew who it was by the distinct smell of cats.

"I was starting to worry I'd be lost here forever. Thanks, Heracles."

The god only nodded, and stared at Alfred in a slow, yet almost appraising manner. Alfred shuffled under his gaze, anxious to be out of the claustrophobic canyon.

"What is your skill?"

Alfred gave him a blank look. "What?"

"What is your skill?"

Alfred worried his lip, gazing at the ground. What was his skill? What did he mean by skill? Like Kiku's skill with his hands? He didn't have anything like that, or at least not that he knew of.

"I don't really know?" It came out as more of a question. "I mean I'm good at remembering stuff, except for maps and how to get around Caelei. I remember what Gilbert was telling Daka yesterday about the daemon around that mining town. Apparently the townsfolk can't go out at night anymore because the daemons are so aggressive. The only thing keeping them safe is the iron wrapping around the containing wall. Apparently they also have a huge temple to Pakram and Arlya there, and it's almost entirely made out of iron." Curse it all, he was babbling again. He bit his tongue and looked for any reaction in the god. Heracles continued to stare, a small frown on his face. After a moment, he nodded.

"Kiku wants you," he said.

"I know. I'm technically on my way, but — well, you know, me, this mountain…"

Heracles grasped Alfred's shoulder. With an odd whooshing sensation, they were whipped straight to the peak that housed Heracles' garden and Kiku's workshop. Immediately upon landing, a flock of cats rushed through the garden to meet the fertility god. With final thanks, he set off down the pebble-line path to Kiku.

Kiku stood as Alfred approached. He stood, brushing at his grey-smudged work tunic. He looked at Alfred with his usual unreadable dark eyes under short, black hair.

"Alfred, I apologize for calling you all the way. Though I must admit I thought you would be more timely."

Alfred gaped for a moment, flushing red. A moment passed before Alfred noticed the teasing gleam in Kiku's eyes. Both broke into laughter, a rare smile spreading across Kiku's face. Alfred hugged his friend around the middle, ignoring how he briefly stiffened. Kiku was the only other human in Caelei, and Alfred's only real friend. They were an unlikely pair; Alfred was loud where Kiku was softspoken, emotional where his friend was reserved. Perhaps it was just that they were both human that drew them together. As much as Alfred adored the gods, they were distant, and not particularly involved in most of his life. And it was Kiku who got the earful of Alfred's restlessness. Alfred wanted to see the world, the human world, even if it was unsafe and prowled by evil deamons.

In response to his friend's trouble, Kiku had made him a gift. Released from Alfred's grasp, he bent down and held out a bundle wrapped in slick oilskin. "I thought you might like it. It is not much, and I am inexperienced in making such things," he said, his cheeks a light shade of pink.

Alfred eased the casing off his gift. His hands held a cherry wood lyre. It was beautiful— polished and shining, strung with delicate strings. It was a little rough, especially around some of the sharper curves, but Alfred saw no flaw. He stroked the strings and marveled at the sound. It hummed through the air, a higher, more somber sound than Alfred expected.

"It's beautiful," he whispered.

Kiku's cheeks darkened at the sincere praise. "I am glad you like it, Alfred. Perhaps you can ask Francis to instruct you?"

Alfred nodded, only half listening. He ran his fingers over the instrument, giving off a gentle chord. He plucked a few wires, noting the different tones. They sat together, side by side, Kiku watching the winter sky swirl from blue to orange to violet and Alfred entranced by the music that came from his instrument. The sun had long set when Arlya finally came to find him. She halted, surprised by the gentle notes. It had been too long since she had heard an instrument and she closed her eyes in pleasure.

"Alfred," she cooed, "what are you doing?"

Alfred's head jerked up. He swallowed and ran his fingers over the polished wood.

"Nothing, really. Kiku gave this to me today," he said holding out the lyre. "I don't even know how to play it, but I'll get better fast, I promise!"

Arlya let out a bell-like laugh. "It sounds wonderful already, but it is much to late for you to be out. It is time to come home."

Alfred stood and shook out his legs stiff from sitting. He glanced around realizing that Kiku had already left. He nodded and held his hand out to the goddess. She swept them back to their own mountain peak. She drifted into the night, off to watch over the mortal realm by the light of the moon. Alfred leaned against the side of his bed, picking out tuneless notes deep into the night. It was only when his fingers were raw and bleeding did he succumb to slumber.

Arlya found him curled around the lyre the next morning. She stooped over him with a curious expression. Her hands strayed towards the lyre, eager to hold an instrument again, but stopped, her hand hovering above it. No, her mind argued. Her touch would just destroy it. She wouldn't do that to her boy. It was one of the few things here that had ever made him so happy. She crouched in front of him and stared at the boy she had rescued from the mountainside. He was still that little child, his head tilted back against the bed and mouth open just a crack. The same small strand of hair still stood straight up as it did on the day she found him. She ran a cool hand over his cheek and down his neck, startling Alfred awake. He blinked up at her and pushed her hand away.

"Arlya?"

"Come, my baby. The gods have a gift waiting for you."

She turned and glided out of Alfred's room. He frowned. He had liked the pet name when he was little, but it bothered him now. He was not a baby. He stood and cursed himself for the awkward sleeping position. However, curiosity got the better of him, and he grabbed his glasses from the side table and walked after the goddess, wrapping his battered leather coat around him for the morning chill. Arlya waited outside and pulled Alfred close to her. They were whisked to highest of the mountain peaks. She guided him to the center of the court of the gods, hand firm around the back of his neck. It was mostly empty, only two other gods were present, Pakram and Francis. The former turned to face the newcomers, leaving other alone to fiddle with his rather ostentatious blue cape as he waited. Arlya danced up to the sun god, giving him a chaste peck on the cheek.

Alfred shuffled his feet as the gods whispered behind their hands, glancing at him every so often. They argued in whispers; Arlya seemed to be winning to no one's surprise. Finally Pakram nodded and waved Francis forward.

"You have lived here for almost eighteen years, have you not?" said the sun god. "And in that time have you done anything worthwhile?"

Alfred tried to hide his stung feelings, failing per usual, though the god did not seem to care.

"The time has come to remedy that. Francis?" With a flourish, the god of the arts held out a pair of boots, each with two fluttering white wings attached at the ankle. Alfred gazed at them, then up at the gods, confusion lining his face.

"You are to be our messenger." It was a command, a contract. Alfred nodded, he wasn't given a choice in the matter, but he was excited nonetheless. He took the boots from Francis, who winked, and slipped them on. The supple deerskin molded around his calf providing a tight grip. He pushed off from the marble floor, hovering. It was thrilling and strange. He overbalanced and toppled to the floor several times before he mastered the new way of holding himself in the air. Parkram and his wife eventually left the court, leaving Francis to supervise. Finally Alfred managed several consecutive moments of holding himself in place. Francis approached with mocking applause, though his eyes showed fondness.

"I hear you have recently received a lyre, no?"

"Yes. A present from Kiku."

"But you do not know how to play, do you?"

"Not really."

"I thought not. Come." He glanced back at Alfred, who looked at him with suspicion. "You want a teacher? Meet me in my garden." He smirked as Alfred jumped into motion. Hopefully he wouldn't keep Francis waiting now that he had a more efficient means of travel. He turned and was swept away into the breeze.

* * *

 

Though Alfred was eager for his lesson, he decided to practice flying on the way. Hovering had only taken a small time to master, but actually flying was an entirely different matter. It was unlike any movement Alfred had ever engaged in. Even the smallest twitches could send him completely off balance, half falling, half flying down towards the mountain passes. After several instances of flipping forward and dangling upside down from his boots, he began to get a notion of how to go about flying. The trick was to keep moving or have his feet directly under him. The birds-eye view did however help with his sense of direction. He found his own home in far less time than he would have walking, not that that meant anything much, given he never failed to become hopelessly lost down there.

He landed on his hillside with far more force than he intended. He flushed at the thought of what he must look like, stumbling along the crest of the mountain, arms flailing for balance. Pushing aside his embarrassment, he ran into the small building that was his home. He grabbed his lyre off the bed and departed, taking a flying leap into the air off the top step. The wings around his ankles flicked into action as he soared up.

 _It's not really easy, but this is fun,_ he thought as he felt the rush of biting air against his face and flapping against his jacket. He spiraled through the air, trying to see how fast he could go. Eventually he came to halt above the court of the gods. His stomach was rolling slightly. Perhaps spinning as fast as he could hadn't been the best of ideas. His body was quickly adjusting to the different movements flying required. Nothing had ever some so naturally to him. He sighed with contentment. _This is wonderful._ He laughed at the cold, at the mountain paths that would never trap him again. He laughed because no one was around to hear and to glare at him for making noise. No one was watching up here. He was free.

He looked down, his bearings still somewhat unsure. He finally spotted Francis's garden and the god waiting in its midst.

As Alfred landed Francis swept over to him, his blue cape fluttering behind him. His bright blond hair was pulled halfway up, the way Francis preferred it when about to engage in one of his specialties. He greeted Alfred fondly with a pat on the head, though Alfred was only a hair shorter. They began the lesson. Though Alfred was inconsistent at best, Francis would often close his eyes and listen to the imperfect chords and scales with a wistful smile. Alfred expected Francis to take the lyre from him to demonstrate some of the more difficult technique. However, the god kept his distance, explaining rather than showing. On a particularly difficult chord, Alfred stood, frustrated and shoved his lyre towards Francis.

"Just show me. I don't understand what you are saying. How are my fingers supposed to go?"

Francis flinched from the held out instrument. His blue eyes glittering with some old hurt that took Alfred aback.

"I wish, my boy, I wish."

Alfred stood in silence and waited for him to continue. Francis frowned; melancholy seeped from him. It was an expression Alfred was unused to seeing on the normally exuberant god. Alfred had turned to leave when a soft voice cut through.

"There is no music in Caelei, is there?"

Alfred turned, startled. Now that he thought about it, the only music he had ever really heard was down on visits to the mortal realm or Kiku's occasional humming. "I guess not. Don't you like it?" he asked.

Francis gave a distant chuckle. "Very much. Of all the arts, I would have to say it is my favorite."

Alfred let the silence hang. When no further response came from the distracted god, he sighed and crossed his arms across his chest. "If it's your favorite, why don't you play?"

The god shook his head, resting his eyes against his palms. "We cannot. The gods are cursed. If we so much as touch an instrument, it will decay, corrode in our very hands. It has been such for an age."

Alfred felt an odd stirring in his chest. It must have been a particular burden on the god of the arts. Alfred reached out and squeezed Francis' arm. The god looked up from his hands and a grim smile formed on his face. "Alas is my fate. But I vow to make a musician out of you, yet, though I will never play again. Now, I will explain this to you once more, this is how to play a harmonic scale."

Alfred arrived home several hours later, fingers raw and sore and his heart heavy with Francis' story. Arlya greeted him on the steps leading to his room. She immediately noticed his oddly thoughtful expression and held him to her. He let her run her fingers through his hair as he confided what had happened.

"It is true, the gods cannot play music," she continued, "and every instrument we touch will break, though it was not always so. Francis loved music, and he was talented. It rent his soul to have it taken away." Alfred nodded, he had heard as much from Francis.

"So why? What happened? How could gods be cursed?"

Arlya moved her caresses down to his shoulders, working out the kinks from sleeping up against the bed the night before. She continued in her same train of thought.

"It was heartbreaking really. Francis could play any instrument with intuitive ease. To have such a gift taken away— it hurt him more than he will admit."

Alfred made a noncommittal sound, observing how she brushed off his question. It wasn't particularly unusual for Alfred to be ignored in such a manner, but Arlya typically was straightforward with him. He let himself be steered into his room, half-listening as Arlya continued to speak of Francis. A thought sprung to his mind, a satisfying way to get a small revenge on the goddess who was so obviously ignoring his real questions. He said the most ridiculous idea he could think of.

"It was because of the daemons, wasn't it? That the gods lost music?"

The goddess froze. She stared at the human with pale eyes Alfred couldn't read. Then with an unnerving smile she responded, "That seems to usually be the case, does it not? Now good night, my baby."

She swept out of his room, leaving Alfred with a stunned expression and even more questions.


	3. Daemons in the Mountains

Alfred sat amongst the everblooming flowers of Francis’ garden; the god watched him with barely concealed affection. The boy had made much progress in the past weeks, despite having little natural talent. His lessons with Francis often ended in frustration for both of them as Francis would often grow inpatient with Alfred’s slow grasp of the musical concepts that were still so clear in the god’s mind. Alfred in turn would become frustrated and then make more mistakes. Fortunately, what the boy lacked in talent, he made up for in diligence. Every day, Alfred would return, eager to impress Francis with improved technique earned from the late nights he spent practicing. 

It was one of those moments early on in the lessons before frustration sent them both into sullen silence. Alfred was comfortable with the notes he played on his lyre, but Francis had introduced a new challenge. Alfred stared at the tablet set before him, his eyes glancing between his fingers and the dots and lines scratched into the wax. Reading music turned out to be as much of a challenge as actually playing. His fingers slipped again, causing a dissonant twang. He sighed and leaned back into the flowers. If only music was as easy as flying, he thought. He had mastered that easily enough, and Gilbert had even given Alfred a few grudging lessons in combat on Pakram’s insistence. 

Alfred looked up at the clear evening skies above Caelei. He hardly noticed when Francis joined him, edging a little closer every few moments. They admired the darkening sky when whooshing sound followed by heavy footsteps startled the quiet moment. The tall figure of the sun god strode up to them, his red hair harsh against the sky. Alfred sat up, a chill spreading down his spine caused by the look on Pakram’s face. His golden eyes were like the sun on a winter’s morning, bright and cold. 

“It has begun. Ivan attacks.”

Alfred glanced between the two gods and wondered who Ivan was. Francis’ face paled, but after a moment he nodded and rose to his feet, leaving Alfred on the ground. Pakram gazed down at the boy. 

“Do you wish to be useful?”

There was no hesitation, Alfred nodded. Pakram stooped over and dragged the boy up by his shoulder. With a swirl of wind, they were gone. 

They landed in the court of the gods. Silence hung, and Alfred suppressed a shudder at the weight in the air. Several of the gods were already present. Gilbert leaned against a pillar, stringing and restringing his bow while Daka paced, her wild black braids sweeping after her. Francis appeared through the pillars, a gold-hilted sword in hand and dressed in handsome leather mail. A concerned looking Kiku followed. Alfred hurried to meet them. 

Kiku grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. “Do you know what you are getting into Alfred?” he asked.

“Vaguely.”

“Do you even know who Ivan is?”

Alfred remained silent, refusing to meet Kiku’s eyes. Kiku shook his short hair with a sigh. “He is a High Daemon. It is said his strength is only matched by his perversion.”

Alfred gave a nervous laugh. “Perverted? Well, I spend enough time with Francis so that shouldn’t really anything new.” Kiku’s frown remained. 

“Alfred,” he sighed, “You never even notice Francis’ advances, whether they be on you or everyone else.”

“But I know he’s perverted.”

“Only because I tell you.”

Alfred pouted. “That’s beside the point. Please, Kiku, don’t worry so much. I’m the messenger. I won’t be in any real fighting, let alone with a High Daemon. Besides, it’s not as if I’m wandering in completely unarmed.” He reached around his waist and unsheathed two daggers from his belt, the only weapons Arlya would allow him to carry.

Kiku took a knife. He ran his thumb over the curved steel and nodded with approval at the thin sliver of blood that appeared behind it. 

“Tempered metal,” he said, “that at least should help discourage them. No Daemon can withstand worked metal.”

“They burn and blister on contact with it. Even if they’re evil, that must hurt,” he said as he slipped the knives back into his belt. 

A hand dropped onto Alfred’s shoulder. He turned to Francis, who led him and Kiku to the center where the rest of the gods who would be fighting were assembled. 

There was no speech, no words of encouragement; the gods didn’t need them. While Kiku made a last examination of their weapons, Francis leaned over and whispered in Alfred’s ear. 

“There’s no need for nerves. Perhaps if you are hurt I will take pity and tend to you with utmost attention.”

“Er— Alright. Thanks?” Francis’ tone sent a wave of nausea through Alfred’s gut. 

With one last squeeze of Alfred’s shoulder, Francis turned on his heel and swept them out into the mortal realm. 

 

* * *

 

Alfred was swept back by the gale force winds and stinging swirls of snow. Blinded in the moonless night, he stumbled back until he collided with something rough and solid. He ran his hand over a wall of wrought iron and the patterns that twisted over it. A grating scream rent the air, chilling Alfred to the bone. Now that he was here, what was he supposed to do? Be a messenger, but what did that mean? He took a deep breath of icy air in a vain attempt to clear his trembling mind. He pushed off the ground and struggled against the wind. 

Through the storm, Alfred spotted Pakram, holding off three sets of blazing violet eyes with great swings of a mace. With a loud crunching sound, Pakram made contact with something in the darkness and the eyes retreated. He spotted Alfred. 

“You’re no use to anyone just standing there. Make yourself useful.” 

Alfred gave him a blank stare. The god muttered under his breath in frustration. The eyes were nearing once more. He swung his mace in warning. “Find Francis. See how he is holding up.” An order. Alfred knew what to do with those. He leapt off in the direction in which the god of love had vanished. Whines and snarls ripped the air behind him. Terror overtook him as he flew blindly through the trees. He could just make out movement from the corner of his eyes. Little lavender lights tailed him, keeping just out of sight. He hurtled out of the trees, and was knocked out of the air by the ferocious wind. He rolled when he hit the ground, the drifted snow soaking under his once-warm jacket. He shook. The screeches were approaching, mixed with the occasional shout of a god. 

He felt it rather than saw it, the shadow that gathered over him, rising up for the kill. Alfred yelped and rolled back through snow, the spot where he was lying a moment before collapsed under some great weight. Adrenaline shot through his nerves. In a single movement he thrust himself back into the air and darted off into the swirling dark. 

“Francis? Francis!” He shouted into the night, only to have his words blown back toward him by the blizzard. In the shadows just outside the city wall he caught sight of something that might have been the god. Metal flashed. It had to be Francis. 

“Alfred!” came the reply. Alfred flew to his side. The god was panting, though he had no injuries thus far. He held his sword with both hands, knuckles white. He glared out into the tree line where violet eyes flashed and vanished, only to appear again from behind a tree. 

“Alfred,” said Francis, his voice broken, “Go— reinforcements, Gilbert— Too many for me. And light, some light?”

“Light?” said Alfred, his own voice an octave higher. “Right, light, and—?”

“Gilbert.”

“Where is he?”

Francis pointed along the city wall. “Follow the wall.”

Alfred nodded and flew off. He was skimming along the snow drifts when he was knocked against the outer wall. Pain ripped through his skull as it rammed against wood and iron. He fell to the snow, stunned. He tapped the back of his head. Dry. The collision would leave a painful lump, but nothing more serious. 

Deep breathing came from above him. He turned over to meet two very large violet eyes boring into his. Eyes of a monster, luminescent, pupil-less, mad with rage and something else— Pain? He could make out a mass behind those eyes, though it seemed to twist in with the very shadows. A mouth opened with a hiss, bearing white fangs that gleamed even in the dim light. 

Every part of Alfred felt heavy and unwilling to move. The eyes narrowed and the hiss deepened into a growl. The fangs leaped at Alfred, who had just enough energy left to raise an arm in front of his face. He shouted as the fangs sank into his arm. Panic flooded him once again. He flicked a dagger out of its sheath with his usable arm and buried it in the swirling mass somewhere behind the eyes and the teeth. It let out a wounded, feminine cry and reeled back, soaking Alfred with blood. Instinct took over. Alfred fled into the air and along the wall. 

The faint sounds of cursing reached Alfred over the wind. He didn’t think. It was all he could do to follow the voices through the night. He halted at the sounds of fighting. He saw the vague forms of Gilbert and Daka, laughing and cursing as they slashed through the mass of Daemons. Daka wielded a sword, long and curved, the night posing no hinderance to her fighting abilities. Gilbert stood back, throwing out taunts and curses as he shot arrow after steel-tipped arrow when when he could make out the gleaming eyes. 

Alfred darted to the shadow of Gilbert, nearly ramming him to the ground. With a loud curse Gilbert picked himself up and glared at Alfred. 

“What is it mortal?”

“Francis… Too many— light, he wanted light!” he babbled. 

Gilbert grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him. 

“Snap out of it! What about Francis? Stop babbling!” 

Alfred’s eyes cleared a bit as he inhaled. “Francis needs backup, he’s getting killed over there,” he said, though his voice was still too high a pitch. “And he says he wants light. Where do we get light, Gilbert?”

Gilbert hand closed around Alfred’s blood-soaked arm and the boy let out a yelp. He needed to stay out of this fight. “Ask the humans in the city for help,” said Gilbert grudgingly. “I suppose they may have something useful to offer, even if they are just humans.” He knocked Alfred upside his already ringing head. “From now on, stay out of this. Stay _up_ out of this,” he said with a gesture to the sky. “You’re nothing but a mortal messenger. Leave the fighting to the gods.” 

He turned into the wind and ran in Francis’ direction. Daka’s enraged howl from behind jolted him to action. The Daemons were closing in again, and Alfred sprang up and let the wind push him to the city battlements. 

To his surprise, the walls were manned, a dark mass of soldiers lined up, arrows notched, though the combination of the wild storm and the dark night kept them from firing. Alfred approached a man who paced behind the archers, calling for calm and steady hands. 

“Er… Excuse me? Is there anything we can do about the light?”

The man jumped and slipped on the wet stone. 

“Who are you?” he asked. Alfred looked up to see the glints of several arrowheads pointed at him. 

“N-no one really,” he said, “just a messenger. The gods want light.”

There was no hesitation. The man shoved himself up from the ground and the battlement broke into action. Bundles of sticks were gathered from the city below and soaked in oil. The man Alfred had spoken to stood beside one such mound and chanted to the sky, torch in hand: “He who gives light and life, let us aid you in your time of need! Let this light live, Pakram, God of the sun and all its fire, master of all that is bright in this world.”

He dropped the flame. The fire spread impossibly fast and gave off a golden radiance into the snowy darkness. Fires sprung up from the three other corners of the city, casting the area into a yellow, flickering light. With a nod of thanks, Alfred took to the skies once more. He sought more orders from Pakram. 

As he approached the familiar figure of the god, Alfred finally saw the monsters that had attacked him. It was odd, they looked almost soft in the golden light. Smoky shadows of the leopards and wolves that roamed the lonely mountainsides. Luminescent violet eyes glared from the swirling mass that were the creatures’ faces. One let out a howl that twisted itself into a human scream. Another female. As it tilted its head back, Alfred caught sight of its white fangs and felt a twinge of pain shoot up his bloody arm. These creatures were evil. He spotted Pakram below, easily holding off the monsters. He swung his mace, red face determined in the firelight. The Daemons seemed to be retreating. They were retreating, crawling back into the wild forest and out of sight from the city walls. 

Alfred let out a sigh of relief and fluttered down to Pakram. The god held out his arm in warning, halting Alfred mid-flight. Pakram’s eyes never left the forest before him.  

_Crack_. 

Then laughter. It was sweet, an endearing laugh. Alfred felt the blood drain from his face as if sucked from his body. 

From the trees emerged a figure. He strode forward to the light. “It was been too long since we have met, Pakram. You agree, hmm?” 

The man matched Pakram in impressive size. He continued forward, moving with a grace uncanny for one so massive. A thick woolen overcoat hung down to his knees. Blood spattered the otherwise white material. Around his neck hung a scarf, thick and white. But what drew Alfred’s attention was what came out behind the coat. A thick snow leopard tail was curled in delight, the tip twitching back and forth. His feet were also the enormous paws of the mountain feline, and explained the ease with which he moved. So this was a High Daemon.

He chuckled again and starred at the sun god with cold eyes. Alfred felt the air ring with a dissonance he could not explain. Pakram stood, an anchor of order amidst the horrible chaos the creature radiated. Alfred could not question it, the creature must be entirely insane. 

“Yes, Ivan, much too long.” He swung his mace at the High Daemon, who danced back out of his reach. The Daemon dashed forward. Pakram swung again, making contact with Ivan’s side, but rather than crumple, the creature snarled and tore the mace from its owner’s hand and cast it aside. They spun in and out, exchanging blows. Alfred began to panic as Pakram began to lose ground. He had never seen anyone come close to besting the sun god in combat, except for Daka, the goddess of war herself. 

_Daka_ , Alfred thought, _She’ll be able to help._

He sped through the storm to where the war goddess had been fighting. Nothing much had changed. Daka swept amongst the Daemons, overcome with bloodlust. Alfred called out from above and she spun out of the mass of writhing Daemons. 

“He’s here, isn’t he?” she cried with delight. She took one last swipe at the Lower Daemons then bolted through the blizzard, her cutting laughter ringing off the trees. 

Alfred battled the wind back to the battlements. The captain greeted him and listened as Alfred relayed his information. Soldiers knocked their arrows, waiting for the Daemon to come into range. Steel arrowheads glinted in the firelight and shadows danced along the wood and metal. Daka sang out a battle cry as she swung at Ivan, who was too surprised to dodge. The blade sank into shoulder and he roared in pain. Control forgotten, he lashed out at the gods, no discernible method to his wrath. Daka and Pakram saw their chance. They fought with the control of millennia of practice. Ivan was driven back toward the tree line. 

Pakram stood back to admire their progress. He glared down at the rage-filled creature. “Pathetic,” he whispered. The words had just slipped from his tongue when he was sent flying into Daka. Blood poured from his chest. Into the light stepped a young woman. Platinum blonde, her eyes a pale grey, she held herself aloof. She would have been the picture of beauty had it not been for the wolf’s tail that swept behind her and the delicate paws that stood in the snow. 

Daka jumped to her feet. “Natalia,” she hissed. 

The second High Daemon lifted her spear, the stone edge still dripping with Pakram’s blood. 

“You do not hurt my brother. You do not insult my brother.”

Daka cackled. “Or what?”

Natalia flew at Daka in answer. The two were locked in combat, sword versus spear. Natalia fought without emotion. Her face blank as she twirled and spun in the blizzard and met Daka at every blow. Ivan had lifted himself back up and was once again engaged in combat with Pakram. Alfred watched with growing panic as the Daemons won back ground towards the city. Pakram turned up to the battlements. 

“Alfred!” he shouted, “Find the others, we need them.”

Alfred launched himself into the air. He found Francis and Gilbert fighting off a wave of Lower Daemons. He swooped in on top of them. 

“No time,” he said, “High Daemons— two of them.”

The two gods nodded and sprinted off towards the main entrance of the city, Alfred following from the sky. 

The addition of two more gods brought the fight back to a stalemate. Natalia fought both Francis and Gilbert with unconscious ease, though the other two gave no ground. Ivan was starting to show the strain of fighting Daka and Pakram. Alfred watched from above, feeling helpless. There wasn’t anything he could do, either Natalia or Ivan would shred him in a moment. Not to mention all he had were his puny knives. Frustrated, he glanced around the night around he caught sight of movement on the other side of the wall. Violet gleamed from the trees as the Lower Daemons attacked the city’s wall. Alfred spun towards the battlements. 

“Daemons from the west!” he shouted. “The Daemons are attacking the west wall.” 

Soldiers looked from Alfred to their captain. 

“What are you waiting for? Move!” 

The soldiers flowed to the west wall. Arrows whirred through the air, and soon the all too human-sounding screams of the Daemons filled the air. Alfred looked on with pride. They were driving off the Daemons. The city would be safe. And this part, this part was safe because of him. 

He drifted back towards the city entrance and his good feeling drained away. The snow was stained with blood. Pakram stood back, supporting a heaving Francis. Daka was forward, her sword blade pressed into Ivan’s white skin. Across from her stood Natalia. She held an unconscious Gilbert by the hair, her spear across his throat. 

“Take your hands off my brother,” Natalia whispered, face blank but eyes smoldering. 

“Then release Gilbert.”

The oppressive silence was broken by Ivan’s low giggle. He winced as the steel blade pressed deeper into his skin. 

“It seems we have reached an impasse. Let me go, and Gilbert dies; let Gilbert go, and I die. Let neither of us go, and we stay here.”

Daka’s face contorted. “Kill Gilbert and you will both die. We outnumber you, and our fellow gods are only a second away.”

Ivan seemed to consider her words. “I believe you have a point,” he conceded. “Release us, and we will go and leave your god behind.”

“Brother!”

“Hush, Natalia, it is good to know when it is pointless to continue fighting. What do you say?”

“I say never trust a Daemon,” said Daka. 

Pakram strode up to Ivan. “Do you swear to leave right when we release you, and to leave Gilbert behind, unharmed?”

“I do.”

Pakram flicked out a knife from his belt. He drew it across Ivan’s hand. Ignoring the Daemon’s hiss of pain at the metal, he did the same to his own hand. He grasped Ivan’s bleeding hand to his own. 

“Repeat your oath.”

“I swear to leave as soon as you release me, and to leave the god unharmed.”

“And Natalia?”

“She will follow.”

“You will die if she doesn’t.”

Natalia’s eyes widened.

“Broth—“

“She will follow.”

“Release him.”

Daka glared at Pakram before kicking the Daemon away. Natalia let Gilbert drop to the snow. 

Ivan stood and rubbed the line of blisters along his neck. He let out his low chuckle. 

“Don’t think you have won, God.” His tail swished behind him as a grin spread across his face. “Come, Natalia.” They vanished into the trees. 

Alfred touched down next to Francis, who was still leaning against the city wall. 

“We did it, didn’t we? We’re heroes.”

“That is a little romantic, even for you, Alfred.”

“Aren’t you the god of love? Shouldn’t you like romance?”

“Oh, but I do. Shall I show you how much I like it when we return home?”

He gave Francis an empty stare. 

“What do you mean?”

Francis sighed. The boy was hopeless, and he was too tired. 

“Francis, we are leaving,” Pakram said. Pushing up from the wall, the god clasped Alfred’s shoulder. They turned into the wind and were gone. 

 

 


	4. Arthur

Alfred collapsed as his feet touched down in the court of the gods. The adrenaline had ebbed from his system leaving him exhausted and shaking. Beside him, Francis let out his heavy sigh before vanishing to his home. The cold of the marble floor seeped into his already snow-soaked clothing, but he had no will to move. He lay there, face pressed into the floor, tracing random patterns with his finger, when he felt himself scooped up and cradled. It was uncomfortable. He didn’t fit: his legs stuck out too far and his neck was crushed forward by the forearm that held it. 

“Come, my baby. It’s time to go home.” 

Arlya’s hold tighten as she whisked them to Alfred’s room. She sat on his bed without letting go. It would have been comforting if he were still a child and her skin wasn’t so cold. Alfred whined and struggled. 

“Shh…” she whispered and eased him out of his jacket. She ran her chilly fingers through his hair. Alfred felt himself begin to relax as she shifted into an archaic language, the one Francis was still so partial to. His still erratic breathing deepened as he fell against his pillows. Arlya stripped the already sleeping human of the remainder of his damp clothing and tucked a quilt around his bare shoulders. 

With a final kiss on his forehead, she slipped out into the moonlight. 

 

* * *

 

Alfred bolted awake, shivering and soaked in a cold sweat. Images of the shadowy Daemons danced in his eyes and it was several moments before he realized that he was safe, safe and far away from any Daemon. He stared up and the white marble, trying to return to some semblance of calm. It was no use. His heart still drummed against his ribs and the shadows in the moonlight made faces at him from the corners of his eyes. He turned over, groping for a candle, when his hand fell on polished wood. 

Alfred lifted his lyre and placed it on his lap. His fingers automatically found their position, even in the half-light. He plucked a few notes before settling into a simple ballad Francis had taught him. His music drew all of his concentration and let him leave behind the shadows and the violet eyes that Alfred saw whenever he closed his own. Alfred didn’t find the story the ballad told all that interesting. Something about war and star-crossed lovers. His musings were interrupted by a cool hand on his shoulder. He looked up Arlya’s pale face. 

“I’m glad you’re awake; I was beginning to worry.”

Alfred frowned. It was still the middle of the night, wasn’t it? “How long have I been asleep?”

“You came back a night ago. It’s almost morning now.”

“How are the others?”

Arlya’s smile faltered. “Pakram and Daka are fine. Francis and Gilbert haven’t woken yet.”

Alfred yelped and leaped out of his bed, burrowing under it for a clean tunic and breeches. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Alfred glanced up from his boots. 

“Well, I have to check on them, don’t I? What it they need something?”

Arlya chuckled and gazed at Alfred with soft eyes. She still saw the little boy who grasped her robes, nervous around the other gods. Part of her failed to exchange the smock he wore then for the breeches and boots we wore now. He was still a baby, her baby. 

Alfred failed to notice her attentions. He slung the pouch that contained his lyre over his shoulder, ran out into the morning sunlight, jumping into the air off the top step. 

He made for Gilbert’s home first, as he had suffered worse wounds. He touched down outside the cave Gilbert called home. 

It was bright and open inside. The distinct smell of woodsmoke hung in the air, though there was no fire lit. The walls of the cave had natural crevices, many of which were filled with bows of various sizes and strengths, or spears, or the occasional animal pelt. Gilbert slept on a small bed off to the side. Two gods stood next to him, Heracles and a god Alfred had little contact with. He was Vahnic, the god of the household. He was tall, like the other gods, however he was rough and grey where the others were youthful. He glanced up as Alfred approached, eyes narrowing with distaste, and proceeded to ignore his presence. 

Heracles was more welcoming. He beckoned the human over and updated him on the injured god’s condition. 

“He will be unconscious for quite some time. Natalia is not gentle with her enemies.”

Alfred worried the inside of his lip. “It’s weird,” he said, “I’ve never seen a god like this before. He’s a _god_. Shouldn’t he be ready to fight again, I don’t know… immediately?”

Heracles gave Alfred one of his unnerving, blank stares. “Yes, he is a god. That is the problem. We are not like you humans, bound to such a tight schedule of life and death, injury and recovery. Your concept of time means nothing to a god, and it is time that heals your wounds isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“Then gods, who exist along different plain of time, cannot be expected to conform.”

“He’ll be alright, won’t he?”

“Sure. He is a god after all.”

Alfred shook his head. A conversation with Heracles always seemed to land Alfred with no answers and a headache. He wondered how Kiku could stand it. 

“Is there anything I can get for you or Gilbert?” he asked. 

“Quiet, just some quiet,” came the growling voice of Vahnic. Alfred gulped as the god glared at him. 

“I’ll go check on Francis.”

Heracles seemed to have forgotten Alfred’s existence. He gazed at the cave wall, lost in thought. 

Alfred arrived in Francis’ gardens a little while later. He ran up the hill and entered the god’s open temple of a home. The pillars were silhouetted by the early morning glow. Francis laid sprawled on an enormous, gold-footed bed. White sheets rested down around his waist, a fact which Alfred was thankful for. Francis’ top half was nude, and he could only imagine that held true for the rest of him. 

There was nothing he could do for the sleeping god, so Alfred turned to leave. He was stopped when an elegant figure swept in. Alfred froze. The goddess glittered in the morning light as the sun reflected off the gems in her embroidered skirt and blouse. Gold hoops hung from her ears, half hidden by her loose, light brown hair. Her golden eyes twinkled at the sight of Alfred and she strode up to him. He gulped. Arlya made her opinion of the goddess clear: she was one to avoid, along with her twin sister. 

“So sweet of you, Alfred, to check up on my dear Francis.”

Alfred opened his mouth, closed it, and finally managed to say, “Good morning, Paan. I should go; Arlya—“

Paan threw back her head and laughed, her garments clinking. “What has that stuffy old woman said about me this time? You spend time with Francis, and he’s worse than me. Come, sit, we’ll wait for him to wake.” 

She took Alfred’s shoulder and drove him back to Francis’ bed. She ran to the side of the room, grabbed a table, two chairs and dragged them over to the bedside. She pointed for Alfred to sit. She pulled a deck of cards out of what seemed to be thin air, and laughed at Alfred’s open-mouthed amazement. 

“So I hear you were a big hero in the battle at the Capitol. Really saved Pakram, not that he’ll ever admit it.”

A flush spread across Alfred’s face. Modesty was something that never occurred to him. “I was pretty great. Pakram wasn’t the only one I helped, Francis—“

“Was this while or after your little panic attack?” she asked with an innocent smile that held for a mere second before breaking into a smirk. 

Alfred sputtered while Paan dealt out the deck. He picked up his cards and flipped them over to look at his hand, only to have them smacked down by the goddess. 

“No cheating.” 

“What are the rules?”

“Play, and you’ll learn.”

She flipped a single card up from her side of the deck then looked at Alfred expectantly. 

 

* * *

 

Late in the afternoon, Francis woke to yelling. Immediately he turned and reached for a sword that was no longer at his side, thoughts full of Daemons, particularly on with the laugh of a child and the brutality of the mountains themselves. He blinked over to the side of his bed where the yelling came from. Alfred and Paan stood on opposite side of his table, a hand each on a pile of cards in the center. 

“Their mine! My hand is completely on it; I slapped first!” shouted Alfred. 

“No you didn’t, you little liar. They’re mine! My pinky is under your hand.”

“Only because you shoved it there after I slapped!”

Francis cleared his throat. Two faces looked at him and immediately lit up. 

“Really, Alfred, you should never play anything with Paan. She cheats.”

The goddess smiled, but denied nothing. 

“How are you, Francis? Do you need — anything you want?”

“Quiet, boy, you’re interrupting yourself, though—“

“Come off it Francis,” Paan said. “Even if he knew what you were talking about, he wouldn’t be interested.”

Alfred stared between the two of them, trying to find the implied meaning. He failed.

“Then perhaps you, my dear goddess?”

Paan cut him off with a flick of her wrist. “I’ve barely had anything to drink yet today, let alone enough for you to tempt me.”

“You wound me, Paan.”

“I try.”

Their topic of conversation finally dawned on Alfred. His whole face ignited, a fate inevitable to one raised by Arlya. 

“Y-you’re right, Paan, you’re pinky was there all along. You win. I’ve got to go… do stuff.” With that, he turned and fled from the gods and their scary conversations. He wove through the air, desperately willing the chilly air to remove the blood from his face. 

 

* * *

 

The next weeks soon fell into routine. Gilbert woke up for the first time a few days after Alfred, though he was still bedridden. The same could be said for Francis, though Alfred wasn’t sure if he was really as pitiable as he made himself seem or if he was milking the attention for all it was worth. Alfred was leaning towards the latter. Though, to be fair, Francis did collapse from exhaustion several times. 

Arlya and Pakram kept watch on the mortal realm, though the Daemons also seemed to be lying low. Alfred spent most of his time running errands or playing games with Francis and Paan, much to Arlya’s displeasure. In the evenings Arlya would try to talk him out of going back the next day, insisting that he stayed away from the festive goddess. She didn’t try to veil her hostility towards the goddess, insisting that she was “loose” and a bad influence, whatever that meant. Alfred hated seeing her upset, so he began to leave Paan out of his descriptions of his day.

The day started according to routine: Alfred woke and dragged himself out of bed and into the chilly air. He slung his lyre across his back and took off for Francis’ garden. The god was absent, though Paan waited. She strode up to him, a look of concern on her face. 

“Where’s Francis?”

Paan shook her head with uncharacteristic seriousness. “He hasn’t woken up today. No matter what I try, he won’t wake.”

Alfred’s eyes widened. “What? Is there anything I can do?”

Something flashed in in Paan’s dark eyes, though her voice still conveyed her concern.

“Perhaps, there is supposed to be a fruit that grows only in the highest skies of Caelei. It is rumoured to heal any minor sickness.” The goddess sighed, her eyes tearing up. “But it is up in the sky, I can’t retrieve it.”

Alfred brightened and puffed out his chest. “I can get it!” he said. “Where in the sky is it exactly?”

“Er… Up, high, you’ll see it when you get far enough away from the ground.”

“Are you sure? Won’t I fall into the mortal realm if I get too far away?”

Paan flicked her wrist. “Don’t be foolish, you’ll find it before that happens.”

Alfred nodded and jumped into the air. He was going to be Francis’ hero. As he zoomed off into the cloudless sky, the goddess on the ground laughed. 

“He really is as gullible as they say,” she said to herself. 

“Paan?” She whipped around, face to face with Francis. His eyes narrowed. 

“Pacarni,” he spat. “Whatever rumors, half-truths, or lies you brought with you, please, take them and leave.”

A feral smirk spread across the goddess’s face. “But you have so much fun with that boy and my dear twin sister. Yet you fail to invite the beloved Pacarni, the life of the party herself. I’m wounded, not to mention bored. I just made things interesting, that’s all. That human is in for a surprise.”

Francis grabbed the goddess’s shoulder. “What did you tell Alfred? Where is he?”

Pacarni spun out of Francis’ grip and vanished with a final cackle. 

 

* * *

 

Alfred wiped his glasses against his tunic. A mysterious sky-fruit shouldn’t be this hard to find. The air was bright and clear, and there was no where it could be hidden. With a sigh, he flew higher. The air was thin and Alfred was beginning to feel lightheaded. It must be close, just a bit farther up. 

The tips of his fingers tingled. Maybe he should rest and try again in a moment. He shook his head to clear it. He couldn’t just hover, Francis needed him and some sky-fruit. He shot upwards, only to meet a strange resistance. There was nothing in the sky, but Alfred felt a presence weighing on his mind. He tried to fall back from the barrier, but as he fell, he felt the presence run over his mind and his skin like a thin fall of water. 

Alfred gasped, the air was cold and heavy with rain. He tumbled through the air, finally managing to regain control just above the ground. He touched down onto springing turf. He glanced up. The sky was a monotonous, stormy grey. Alfred shuddered. He was in the mortal realm, a part he had never visited before. Tendrils of mist curled over the rolling landscape, fusing and parting as if alive. Alfred stood on top of a low hill, looking out at his vivid green surroundings. He could see a stream in the distance, winding by a tangled copse of trees. Many of the surrounding hills were crumbling, entire sides eaten away to dirt and bare boulders. 

Alfred glanced around with the eerie feeling that he was being watched. He set off on foot, tired of flying. He picked his way down the slope, which was filled with odd little dips and breaks that seemed created specifically for tripping him. He wouldn’t be able to get back to Caelei on his own. Whenever she took him to the mortal realm, Arlya insisted on trying to teach him to “feel for Caelei.” No matter how he tried, he never found what Arlya called the “sense of home.” 

He set about pondering what had happened to land him out here, so far from any civilization. His thoughts focused on why Paan had tricked him out of Caelei. He worried the inside of his cheek, lost in his musing and failed to notice the shadows following him through the mists. 

When he reached the base of the hill, a small stone bounced by, startling Alfred from his thoughts. He spun around, groping for a dagger that was not there. On the hillside above him were two Daemons, both as tall as Alfred at the shoulder. They appeared as large canines, long-shouted with small triangular ears that arched back into a thin, almost graceful body, held up by thin legs. A whip-like tail lashed behind them. Like their mountain kin, they seemed to have no solid form: shadows swirled off of them like dust. But what transfixed Alfred were the eyes. Pupil-less, shining emerald eyes. 

One raised its shadowy hackles, baring fangs that made Alfred’s just-healed arm twinge. The other tilted its head back and let loose a shriek that was all too human. They did not attack, but hung back, snuffling and wary. A mass of darkness appeared at the peak of the hill. Alfred was rooted to the spot, his mind nothing but blank white fear. He stared up as a third Daemon approached. It was slightly larger than the two at the base of the hill, but as it descended, Alfred felt its presence press on him, almost a physical force. It walked through the middle of the two other Daemon’s and approached Alfred. It glared at him with wild green eyes. It flicked it’s head back to the others, growling. They replied with their own growls, heads flicking from side to side as if they were confused. 

Wind ripped through over land, knocking Alfred from his feet. Shielded his face from the shower of pebbles and dirt that tore over him. The wind dropped as quickly as it came. 

Alfred lowered his arms and looked up. Where the Daemon had stood seconds before was a man who appeared to be just older than Alfred. A cloak was pinned around his shoulders, hood thrown back to reveal straw-colored hair that refused to lay flat. Under the cloak, he wore a white tunic and loose brown breeches, much like Alfred’s. 

Alfred stared up at his hard green eyes, framed by enormous, dark eyebrows. They stared back, cold and filled with hatred. He took a step forward, moving with uncanny grace across the uneven ground. Alfred’s eyes flicked down. A thick, sweeping fox tail flicked from side to side behind russet paws that ran up under the hem of the his breeches. 

“You… You’re a daemon, a H-high daemon,” Alfred stuttered. 

“I’m aware of that.” His voice carried an unfamiliar accent. His words were rounded and his voice was softer than he expected. “But what are you?” He yanked Alfred to his feet and continued to glare at him. 

“Human?” Alfred offered. 

“You feel like _them_. You have the touch of the gods on you.” The daemon stepped around Alfred, examining him. His attention was drawn to Alfred’s winged boots. He bristled.

Alfred stumbled back. “A gift! They’re a gift! I’m human!”

The daemon stepped back and crossed his arms under his cloak. “So it seems. Very well, what are you doing in my moors?”

“You’re moors? Who gave you ownership?”

A look of genuine confusion flashed across the daemon’s eyes, replaced an instant later with renewed anger. 

“I’ll ignore your impertinence, human, and give you one more chance to answer. What are you doing here?”

Alfred felt his fear ebb away, replaced by his own temper. “Or what? You’re just like Ivan and Natalia. You’ll threaten and hurt anyone just to get your own selfish way. You’re completely evil!”

If the daemon had been angry earlier, it was nothing compared to his fury now. Alfred bit his lip, trying to keep from flinching under the weight of the his glare. 

“Since you are… so convinced — because of course there could be no other explanation for our actions — I will not waste my time trying to convince you otherwise.” He turn from Alfred, back to his low daemons. “Kill him.”


	5. Chased

“Kill him.”

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to reach Alfred. The Daemons approached him, growls in their throats and their green eyes glowing. A shock shot through Alfred, spurring him into motion. As he turned to flee, the Daemons raced forward. 

Alfred had a bit of a head start, but the heavy thud of paws behind him grew closer. He couldn’t risk a glance back, but a warm huff of breath on his neck was enough. 

The ground turned broken and rough under Alfred’s feet as he ran along the lower side of the hill. Broken boulders littered the torn soil. Spotting his chance, Alfred leapt at one. His wings only managed to lift him enough to land on top of the boulder, but it was enough. As one of the Daemons pounced at him, he pushed off into the air. 

The Daemons raced into the air after him. Alfred swung to the side, spinning out of the path of the shadowy masses. They crashed back down to earth. He chanced a glance behind, only to be met with those horrible fangs leaping up after him. Their heavy landing seemed to have had no impact on their jumping skills. 

Alfred lurched forward, hugging the rolling hills. He matched the Daemons’ pace, as they gained no ground. One threw back its head and gave a strangled sounding scream. The sounds chilled Alfred’s blood and sent uncomfortable twinges over his just-healed arm. He forced himself away from the sound, over the crest of a hill when the sound came again, this time from the front. Three more black hounds waited on the crest of the hill, hackles raised, dusty shadows swirling around them. 

Alfred panicked. He banked hard, skidding face first along the ground. Ignoring the new bloody taste along his lip, he scrambled to his feet and sprang into the air. He hovered, glancing from side to side. He was surrounded. Heavy drops of rain landed on his head. The storm was breaking. There was no way out. 

As the Daemons approached, Alfred tried to calm his panicking mind. The terror running through him wasn’t letting him think straight, just like in his first battle. There had to be some way out; there was no way he was going to die here. 

Alfred’s eyes widened as a Daemon leapt at him. He shot straight up, into the sky. He mentally kicked himself. 

“Stay _up_ out of it, Alfred, you moron!” he said, remembering Gilbert’s advice. The Daemons glared up through the rain, their eyes glowing even in the fading light. They might be able to jump, but they couldn’t fly. Alfred sighed in relief. He was safe, out of reach. 

He wiped some water off his glasses, and a small smirk graced his face. The Daemons waited below. They weren’t so scary, not from up here. He drifted down closer. A Daemon crouched, then pounced up at Alfred who spun just out of reach. He let out a loud laugh. 

“Poor Daemons can’t catch the little human?” he taunted. Another leapt for him. Alfred yelped and shot upwards. Once his heart settled, he drifted back down. 

“That the best you can do? How terrifying, the big bad Daemons—“ 

His voice was cut off by five screams. Alfred covered his ears against them, knees curling into his chest. When it was over, he looked down through the rain. The five Daemons were there, though they sat, gazing up at Alfred with what appeared to be only mild interest. 

Alfred didn’t hear anything through the rain, but one minute he was hovering, unharmed if unnerved above the hills, the next, he was hurtling through the rain towards the ground. He shoved his feet under him, slowing his momentum until he was in control again, just above the ground. He looked up. Within the dark clouds, another figure moved with the same swirling movements as the other Daemons. He had no time to examine it further as a growl from below caught his attention. The five hound Daemons raced towards him. 

Alfred turned and shot away. The rain was falling harder and Alfred was having trouble seeing. His lungs burned and he felt fatigue slip into his limbs. A gust from above snapped him back to attention. He swung to the side as glittering talons closed around the space where Alfred had been. However, he was not quick enough to miss the heavy wing that slammed down on top of him. 

Somehow Alfred managed to stay airborne. He looked up at his attacker. It had the general shape of a hawk, thin body and long wings, with a Daemon’s size and swirling form. The same pupil-less, green eyes caught his and it cried out, a mix between hawk and human.

It dove after Alfred. His mind could focus on nothing but flight. He spun and weaved, avoiding the worst of the hawk Daemon’s assault. He was fading fast. The shadows and little green lights danced across the corners of his eyes. He occasionally sank back towards the earth, only to be forced to shoot up again by the leaping jaws of the hound Daemons. 

His exhausted body couldn’t support him anymore. Once again he fell towards the green hills, through the rain, and the violent wind, and the cries of Daemons. He opened his eyes to see the Daemons below hesitate. They had come to the crest of a hill, but the other side dropped of into a cliff. It’s face was broken, crevices running up and down, some looking deep enough to shelter in. 

He managed to right himself again, though hovering in place took up a great deal of concentration. The Daemons on the ridge anticipated his plan and howled a warning to their kin in the sky. It swooped down, and blocked the cliff face from Alfred. He tried to swerve around it, but it cut him off at every turn, lashing out with its talons. 

Alfred halted, hanging in the air. He was out of ideas. Relative safety was in sight and out of reach. Maybe it would be easier just to wait until the Daemon lunged at him, ending it all. He brushed the water off his glasses. 

“No,” he whispered to himself. “Not yet. It’s so close. Just one last thing to get past.” 

The Daemon attacked. Alfred’s blue eyes steeled themselves in the dim light. He let himself drop out from under the creature, who, carried by its own momentum, couldn’t twist to finish off Alfred. 

He seized his chance. With a final burst of energy, he launched himself at the cliff face. He located a crevice and prayed it was deep enough to offer some protection. He was lucky. He slammed himself through the opening and into a hollow behind it just as the Daemon collided with the rock. It flew back, shrieking and tore at the entrance of the hollow with its claws and beak. 

Alfred shoved himself as far back as he could get, muscles burning with the effort. He shook as the adrenaline ebbed out of his system. He didn’t have his jacket, just his tunic which was now dripping with the cold rain. He drew his knees up to his chest, trying to block out the grating sound of claw against stone and occasional scream of frustration from the Daemon. 

“I’m going to die here, aren’t I?” He found talking to himself comforting, a familiar sound in all the chaos. 

He felt something hard press into his back. He reached around and unslung the satchel that contained his lyre. Francis had promised to teach him a new piece that day. Momentarily forgetting the Daemon, he drew it out, images of a fractured instrument flashing through his mind. To his amazement, it was, for the most part, unharmed. A bit damp where the oil skin had ripped and battered around the edges, but it was still in fine working condition. A loud crack sounded through the small hollow. The Daemon was making progress. Alfred shuddered against the nightmarish sound. 

There was no reason why he shouldn’t play. The Daemon knew where he was already. He rubbed he damp face with the back of his hand. He was cold, and dripping, and still his heart thudded against his chest. It wasn’t too much to ask for a bit of comfort, was it?

His fingers found their places. They began to move in Alfred’s favorite ballad, about a hero who saved a princess from the clutches of an evil king. It was romantic, and though the key had a minor lit to it, it was hopeful, especially the parts detailing the hero’s bravery. A small smile shown across Alfred’s face as his fingers gain confidence. There was still the odd twang of a missed note, but the music filled the small hollow. 

It was only when he finished that Alfred realized the screams of the Daemon’s had silenced. He let the sound fade and listened. Wing beats. It was still out there. But why wasn’t it attacking? 

Alfred forced himself to his feet. Still clutching his lyre, he peeked out of the crevice. The Daemon hovered there, but something was different about it. Its form wasn’t as smoky as before and its glowing eyes were wide with curiosity. Even as Alfred emerged, it made no move to attack, just waited. 

Alfred plucked a few strings of his lyre. The Daemon’s eyes widened as it drifted a bit closer. 

“You like this?” Alfred asked. 

The Daemon made no response, but Alfred took its stillness as confirmation. He settled himself on the ledge and started the chords of another lay. He didn’t try to sing along to the music; it took all his concentration just to stop his fingers from slipping. He leaned back against the broken stone, beginning to relax. The overhang of the cliff shielded him from most of the rain. 

He played well into the night. The Daemon never once moved from its position. Alfred has exhausted most of his musical knowledge when it jolted from its position. It turned to the top of the cliff and chirped in recognition. 

“What are you doing?” The smooth voice sent a cold tingle of fear down Alfred’s spine. “Why haven’t you returned? Is it that hard to kill a pathetic human?”

The Daemon trilled up to the high Daemon, its birdlike voice a stark contrast to its human scream. 

Pride stirred in Alfred’s chest. “You think I’d go down that easily?” He shouted before he knew what he was doing. 

A dark figure leapt down the cliff and landed right in front of Alfred. His cloak was pulled up over his head. He turned to the Daemon hovering in the air behind him. 

“Explain yourself! Why isn’t he dead?”

The Daemon chirped and whistled. The High Daemon turned back to Alfred and pushed back his hood, flicking drops of water everywhere. His busy eyebrows tugged into a frown above his confused eyes. 

“She’s not making any sense. What did you do to her?” he said and crouched down, grabbing Alfred’s tunic and glaring at him directly in the eyes. 

“I played for it—her. That’s all, I swear!”

“Played?”

Alfred drew his thumb across the strings of his lyre. “Yeah. I think she likes it.”

Most of the hostility drained out of the High Daemon’s eyes. He still frowned but he stared at Alfred as if seeing him for the first time. 

“Play,” he commanded. 

“What?”

“Play, and I’ll let you live.”

“Not much of a choi—“

“I could kill you now if you prefer.”

Alfred shut up and hesitantly began his favorite ballad again. He risked a glance up at the Daemon, startled when he saw a small half-smile appear. The melody faded into the night. Alfred looked at the Daemon, waiting for a response. 

“You’re not all that good, are you?”

Alfred flushed. He opened his mouth to retort when the Daemon cut him off. 

“But I enjoyed it. I want you to come play for me again.”

_Wait, What?_ Alfred could only stare with wide eyes and sputter. 

The Daemon returned to his scowl. “Are you really as thick as you look? You will come back to play for me.” He looked out at the rain, then settled into a sitting position. “Once a fortnight.” He nodded to himself. 

“And if I don’t?”

The Daemon considered this. “I’ll find you.”

“If you can’t?”

“I will. You will come.” He paused. “Won’t you?”

It was crazy, stupid to enter into such an agreement. Arlya would be angry. All of the gods would be angry. But Alfred saw his own loneliness reflected in those eyes, and something reckless bubbled up in him. _Besides_ , he rationalized, _it’s not as if I have much of a choice._

“Alright. I’ll come,” he said. 

“Good.” The small smile returned to the Daemon’s face. “Swear on it.” 

He picked up a sharp stone from the floor and slashed it across his own hand and gestured for Alfred’s. 

Alfred gulped then held out his hand. He winced as the stone slashed his palm. The Daemon clasped them together. 

“Do you swear to return once a fortnight to play your music for me?”

“I do.”

“Then I swear to let you leave here as you are.”

The Daemon released Alfred. “Play some more.”

Alfred’s hands ran over the strings, picking out melodies against the rain. His entire attention occupied, he didn’t notice as the Daemon leaned in, gazing at Alfred with inscrutable eyes. 

An hour passed, then another. Alfred’s head nodded once, twice as exhaustion began to overcome him. 

“You can stop. Sleep.” 

Alfred could only nod. He curled his knees into his chest and began to doze off. Sleep was almost upon him when he realized he lacked a vital piece of information. 

“What should I call you?” he asked. 

“Come again?”

“Call you? I can’t just call you Mr. Daemon.”

“Arthur.” 

“What?”

“Arthur. You may call me Arthur.”

Alfred frowned. He hadn’t expected such an ordinary name. 

“Alright, Arthur. I’m Alfred.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure.”

Alfred was already asleep. Arthur frowned at him, then returned to staring out at the rain, already missing the clumsy music. 

* * *

 

The grey morning light woke Alfred. He glanced around the hollow to find that he was alone. 

“Did… Did that really happen?” A glance at his hand told him all he needed to know. The slash across his palm was just scabbed over. The events in his memory had most certainly taken place.

He stepped out into the morning light and tried to stretch out his stiff body. The land below the cliff was covered in a thick fog and the sky was just as overcast despite the heavy rain the day before. The whole landscape looked soft, as if covered by a thick cotton blanket. He flew up to the top of the cliff and sat down, wondering how he would find his way home. He wanted his bed and he wanted to be warm. 

He let out a sigh, wondering if he would get rained on again. The wind was light, holding none of the violence of last night. He tilted his head back to watch the clouds when he heard it: a distant shout over the mists calling his name. 

“Alfred!” He scrambled to his feet and ran towards the voice. 

“I’m here! Over here!”

Arlya appeared in the mists. Alfred ran up to her and threw his arms around her. She stroked his damp hair and took a careful inventory of his injuries. She knew who had done this to her boy, and he would pay. 

“Come, my baby, let’s go home.”

Alfred could only nod as he was whisked away. 

* * *

 

All the gods were gathered in the summit of Caelei save one, who was serving out a punishment down in the mortal realm. She was not missed. 

“Is that everything, Arlya?” asked Parkram. 

“Yes. He told me everything. His bargain with the Daemon is particularly concerning.”

“How often must he go down? Once a fortnight?”

“That is correct.”

The sun god frowned at his wife. The news was concerning. The new Daemon War was breaking and now one of his vulnerable pawns had sworn in blood to meet with one of their most powerful enemies on a frequent basis. 

“There is nothing we can do to lift it?” he asked. 

“Nothing I have tried has been able to lift it. But there is one way, one drastic measure that could free him.”

Francis interrupted her, his voice unusually high. Before she could state her proposal, he said, “Maybe it is a good thing this has happened. Perhaps Alfred can gain us some information of the daemons. Perhaps we should tell him the prophecy?”

A general murmuring broke out. Finally a sandpaper voice broke through. 

“I do not believe we should,” said Circalous. “The prophecy is coming true without his knowledge of it. I see no reason to tell him.”

Francis shrugged at the prophet god. “You know best.”

The court turned to other matters of the mortal realm before Arlya brought up Alfred again. 

“As I have said, there is one way to release Alfred from his oath.” 

Pakram eyed her, frowning. “What do you propose?”

“We make him on of us. A god.”

The court exploded. Gods jumped to their feet, all shouting at once. 

“Make a human a god? That’s never happened before!”

“There’s a first time for everything. He could be useful.”

“I will not lower myself among humans!”

“We’re not lowering ourselves. We’re raising him.”

“Silence!” shouted Pakram. “Every idea brought to this court must be given fair evaluation. Arlya, explain.”

The goddess stood and strode to the center of the ring of thrones. 

“If we grant him godhood, Alfred’s humanity, his human essence will die. This is the part of him his oath is bound to. Lose of humanity, lose of obligation. Not to mention the other benefits. Alfred has proved his worth. But he is still a human, not only are humans short-lived but they are fragile. One misplaced swipe and he’d be lost to us. He heals faster than us; he was up in a day of the attack on the mining town while Francis and Gilbert are still not fully recovered, but a god will not die. Without this protection, he will wither before the war even truly begins. He must be protected, and godhood will grant him that.”

A couple of gods nodded in agreement. 

Pakram looked around. “Any other views?”

This time it was Gilbert who stood. “Alfred is useful, no one will deny that. But what Arlya fails to realize is that he is not irreplaceable. There are other humans who exist now, and who will exist in the future who could easily be more useful than he is. Godhood is no light option, Arlya. What if something goes wrong with him? As you said, a god can’t be killed! Besides, Alfred is too much of a child to consider it at this point. I want to win this war as much as you, but the risks of raising a human to godhood are too great. He may not even survive the process.”

Paan didn’t even bother leaving her chair. “I’m for it,” she said. “Alfred is fun. I’d like to keep him around. Plus, what’s life without some risk?”

“Is your enjoyment all you think about?” accused Circalous. “He is here for one purpose, to destroy the Daemons. So far, all has been going along with the prophecy. Keep him as he is.”

The room descended back into shouts and wild gestures. Finally Pakram held out his hand to silence them all. 

“We will vote on it.”

“Without Pacarni?” asked Paan. 

Most of the gods shrugged. Waiting for Pacarni to return would take too long.  

“Around in a circle then,” said Pakram. “I am for it. Arlya?”

“For.”

“Heracles?”

“For.”

“Gilbert?”

“Against.”

“Daka?”

The war goddess spat, “Against.”

“Vahnic?”

“Against,” said the old looking god.

“Paan?”

She considered it for a few moments. “For.”

“Circalous?”

“Against.”

“We have reached a tie. Francis?”

All eyes turned to the god of love. He flicked imaginary dust from his clothes and shifted from foot to foot. 

“Francis?” said Arlya. “He’s your friend. You would hate to lose him, wouldn’t you?”

Francis closed his eyes. He saw his young human friend; yes he wanted him to stay safe. But he saw Alfred with his lyre. Francis couldn’t lose the music again. He scuffed his boot against the floor. “Against.” Arlya stared at him, betrayed. 

“That is settled then. He will not become a god.”

Arlya stood and glared at the rest of the court. “What are you thinking? Alfred is human, he will age, and he will die, and that will be another victory for the Daemons!”

Heracles stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. “There is more than one way to keep a mortal alive. Since you cannot make him a god, find another way.”

“Such as?”

“Freeze his age.”

“Is that what you did with Kiku?”

“Yes. He is still mortal, but he does not age. The same might work for your Alfred.”

“How does one go about freezing a mortal’s age?”

The sleepy god stared ahead for a moment before replying, “A charm is usually the most effective. They’re complicated, but I can help you with the preservation spells.”

Arlya looked around the court. “How does this offer stand? We freeze his age, but keep him mortal.” 

There was a general assent, so Arlya swept off to design the magic. She stopped by Alfred’s room. He was still sleeping, face pressed into his bandaged-wrapped hand. 

“Don’t worry, my baby. Soon, soon.”


	6. The Spring Festival

A week after he made the deal with Arthur, Alfred woke to Arlya running her fingers through his hair. He mumbled at her and groped around for his glasses lost in the blanket. He cursed when his knuckles rapped against the wood of his lyre, sending shooting pain through his hand.  It was still lying in his bed. He must have fallen asleep playing again. 

Arlya chuckled at her sleepy boy and a hint of sadness slipped into her smile. Every time she looked at him, she was reminded that she had failed. He was not a god and even worse, he was still bound by the vow to that cursed Daemon. 

She would not fail again. Soon they would see her way, and Alfred would be safe. She was so consumed by her thoughts that she started when Alfred addressed her.

“Arlya? Is everything alright?”

She snapped back to attention and beamed at the boy. “Of course, my baby. Everything is just fine. In fact, do you know what day it is?”

Alfred frowned and shook his head. 

“It’s the Festival of Spring. The snows are beginning to retreat, and planting season will start soon. Heracles will be spending the day in Aenea, the city the Daemons attacked earlier this winter.” 

Alfred bounced in his bed. Maybe this would be the year he could finally go. He had never attended, but he had heard much about the Festival from Kiku, who went every year with Heracles. It was supposed to be one of the grander of the many religious festivals, full of color, and decorations, and dancing, and famous for the food. Every autumn, Heracles would visit the mortal realm and take offerings of the best meats and produce from the harvest and take them to Caelei, where they would remain, unchanged until the Festival of Spring, when he would return it. Surviving the winter on nothing but preserves and salted meats inspired the bakers and housewives to prepare their most elaborate and delicious dishes with the fresh food the fertility god brought.

 Arlya gave him an indulgent smile. “It is also a special time for you, Alfred,” she cupped his cheek in her hand. “The winter is over. You have seen over eighteen years and by mortal standards you are no longer a child. Why don’t we go to the Festival in celebration?”

Alfred leapt from the bed. “Really?” he asked, eyes shining. Despite his recent adventures in the mortal realm, Arlya rarely allowed him anywhere outside of Caelei. He dove under his bed, shaking out a wrinkled tunic before pulling it over his head. 

“Of course, my baby. I’m sure Kiku won’t mind showing you around, and you won’t bother Heracles. He’ll spend most of the day with the priests and what few farmers live in the mountains. He’s already in Aenea, blessing and helping with the preparations.” 

Alfred hadn’t heard anything past the mention of Kiku. He pulled on a pair of ordinary boots and turned to the waiting goddess. They swept off to find the craftsman. 

* * *

 

Alfred, Kiku, and Arlya landed outside the iron gates of the city. Ribbons of bright green and yellow were draped along the top of the city wall, and Alfred could just make out more streaks of color on the peak of the temple that towered about the walls. The city guards fell to their knees as Arlya approached and ushered them through the heavy doors without a word. 

The main cobbled road was lined with booths and vendors, all adorned in bright decorations. The stalls were covered in dyed sheets of fabric, anticipating the vibrance of the coming spring. People wandered or ran through the street, greeting their friends or contemplating buying a snack or doll. 

The small group of people closest to the entrance noticed Arlya and sank down, heads bowed. She beamed at them all and held her arms out in welcome. She turned to Alfred and Kiku. 

“I leave for my temple,” she said and handed Kiku a pouch of money. “Stay out of trouble, Alfred, and stick close to Kiku. Kiku, I trust you’ll look after him.”

Kiku bowed and nodded. “Of course, Goddess.”

Alfred pouted at the condescending treatment. He was a man now. He didn’t need Kiku to babysit him. He watched as Arlya turned and swept off towards her temple. He turned to his friend beside him. 

“So where do we start?”

Kiku’s dark eyes lit up. 

“Last year there was a man who sold folded paper. Shall we see if he is here again?”

“Folded paper? That seems a little boring,” said Alfred. Kiku sighed and dragged Alfred off in search of the booth. When they found it, Alfred stood transfixed and Kiku smirked. 

“Look over here, Kiku! This one’s a frog. And it hops!”

Alfred turned to his friend, small paper frog in his hand. He pressed down on its back end and snorted in delight as it flew out of his hand. He turned to pick it up when his attention was caught by another intricate animal. 

Kiku bent down to pick the forgotten frog from the ground. Official adult or not, Alfred needed supervision. He had already manhandled most of the artist’s creations and would have had to pay for several if Kiku hadn’t saved the few Alfred let fall to the ground to be crushed by the masses. 

“Come on, Alfred, haven’t you looked long enough?”

“No way. I don’t know which one I’m going to get.”

Kiku sighed. The vendor was staring to get annoyed. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” Kiku asked. It was a last resort to move Alfred away from the poor man’s wears. As he predicted, Alfred’s head shot up, and he nodded, tuft of hair bouncing. They wandered off down the street to where steam rose from fresh cooking. 

It turned out that Alfred was as indecisive about what to eat as he was about everything else. He meandered back and forth between the food stalls, hopelessly torn until he finally settled for a meat patty in a bun toped with some fresh lettuce and tomato. Kiku held a small bowl filled with rice and vegetables. 

“The parade is about to start,” said Kiku. 

Alfred took a huge bite out of his meal and mumbled something unintelligible through his mouthful. 

Kiku frowned. “Come again?”

Alfred swallowed and gestured around. “Where’s the best view?”

“Follow me.”

Kiku led the way from the packed street to the great wood and iron walls of the city and up a rickety stairwell to the battlements. They leaned against the outer wall, gazing out at the view of the city. It was a sight to behold. The great temple rose up in the center, wings shooting off like spokes of a wheel. The main road was hardly visible underneath the masses that crowded over it. Drums began to sound from the temple courtyard as people shuffled to make a path for the parade. 

“First come the Daemons of winter,” whispered Kiku. 

Men poured out into the streets, they wore nothing but breeches and horrible, grotesque masks. They danced through the square, leaping in time with the heavy thuds of the drums. They pulled other masked people from the crowd, though these wore the faces of animals. The Daemon-dancers swept around them, and the animal-dancers spun and pretended to die. Still forms littered the streets as the remaining dancers leapt over them, moving as if they had lost all control of their bodies. 

It struck Alfred as wrong. “I don’t understand,” he said to Kiku, remembering a pair of vivid green eyes. “Daemons wouldn’t hurt animals, even livestock, and they don’t look a thing like those horrible masks.”

Kiku stared at his friend. “It is a representation. They do not look like that on the outside, but those masks and dances show the emotional appearance of the Daemons.” He paused. “Are you defending them?”

“No. No, of course not. It’s just… it doesn’t sit with me right.”

Kiku shrugged and turned back to the celebration. Ten dancers, decorated in various swirling ribbons and elaborate headdresses stepped out into the street. They moved with a grace the erratic movements of the Daemons couldn’t match. The Daemons began to fall and the onlookers began to cheer. 

Alfred turned away to gaze at the still snowy forest. Movement caught his eye. Trees were shaking and a great cloud of snow rose not to far away from the city. 

“Hey Kiku, look at that!” Alfred said pointing to the commotion. 

Kiku looked out with feigned interest. “I see. What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” he said as he bolted for the stairs. 

“Alfred—“ Kiku called, but the boy was gone, already down the stairs and halfway to the gate. Kiku turned back to the festivities. He’d go find Alfred after the parade. After all, how much trouble could the boy get himself into?

* * *

 

Alfred ran past the city guards and into the bare land that surrounded the city. There was still evidence of the fight from a month before. Alfred climbed over cracked boulders and debris as he approached the forest. He stood just outside the wall of trees, trying to remember which way the commotion was. If he remembered correctly, it should be just straight off from the gates. He set off into the trees. 

Though it was sunny, the forest was dark and cold. The snow was hard and icy, crunching with every step Alfred took. The black-green fir trees shot up every few paces, intermixed with bare knotty oaks and ghostly aspens. Lifeless shrubs made most of the space between the trees, making going in a straight line impossible. To top it off, every direction looked the same, and soon Alfred found himself lost. He didn’t know which direction the town was, much less the direction of the disturbance he’d seen. 

With a sigh, Alfred let his feet wander, hoping he’d run into one or the other soon enough. He was struggling through a particularly stubborn patch of undergrowth when he heard a pained shout from up ahead, followed by a string of curses. Alfred froze mid-step. He extracted himself from prickly brush. He squinted ahead, trying to make out the source through the trees. 

_It’s probably best to try to avoid whatever made that shout,_ he thought, though his feet made to move in its direction. _Kiku might be starting to get worried. I should head back. Whichever direction back is._

His body deemed otherwise, and he gave himself to his curiosity without anymore useless struggle.  

* * *

 

The voices were farther off than Alfred thought. He would have lost his way again if not for the constant, shouted arguments. Something about the voices sounded familiar. They came from a clearing, just through the trees ahead. Alfred peaked through. His eyes widened. 

Ivan was standing in the middle, his back turned to Alfred. He wore only loose trousers and was shouting in pain as a bent over figure in a black cloak fussed over his lower back. Alfred shrank back when he noticed a female Daemon with distinctive waist-length pale hair pacing in front of them. She flicked a stone dagger in and out of its sheath on her waist. Her worry was obvious on her pale face and she fidgeted and shouted at the black figure to hurry up. She walked back and forth across the snow; wolf paws silent and tail sweeping. 

“They have begun the mining already, Brother?”

Ivan nodded and gave another gasp of pain. Alfred could just make out a deep gash running along the small of his back, partially stitched together. “They start earlier every year, Natalia,” he said. “And it gets worse every year.” His voice shook in bitterness. “They cut and chip away at the mountains, leaving scars along their sides. And there is nothing I can do with those cursed gods protecting them.”

Alfred leaned forward to catch more of the conversation when his feet lost their traction on the snow and he crashed forward. Natalia’s eyes narrowed and in a heartbeat Alfred found himself flung out into the clearing. 

“What do you want, human?” Natalia asked as she stalked over to him. “You are from the city, no doubt. I should skewer you and leave you as an example to the rest of your people. How would they like to see their kin’s head on a pike, hm?”

Alfred tried to scoot away, but a large paw slammed into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. He winced as dull black nails dug into his chest. The Daemon glared at him for a moment before she bent over and yanked him up by the elbow. Alfred shuddered at the coldness in her eyes. She opened her mouth when she was interrupted. 

“Alfred?” 

He and Natalia looked over at the black-cloaked figure. He stood up to his full height and threw back his hood, revealing short, messy hair and a characteristic frown. 

“Arthur,” said Alfred. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or more frightened by the Daemon’s presence. But Arthur didn’t look angry, just surprised. 

Ivan glanced over, his eyes narrowing. “You are the gods’ messenger are you not? I saw you here before. What is wrong, human, lost your wings?”

“Messenger?” Natalia mumbled to herself. Her grip on Alfred’s shoulder tightened and she whipped a stone dagger from her side. Alfred shuddered against the cold edge against his neck. “It will be my pleasure to kill you then, god-filth.”

“Natalia!” Arthur snapped. “Release him.”

“Why? He dies, the gods lose another pawn.”

Uncertainty flickered across Arthur’s face, only to be replaced with calm a second later. “It’s not worth it. One human death isn’t worth bringing down the wrath of the gods. Not now, at least.”

“Perhaps—“

“The same thing goes for kidnapping. Not worth it.” He returned to Ivan’s lower back. “Those stitches should hold. Don’t do anything overly strenuous, or you’ll break the herringbones and it will open again. And though I love your company ever so much, I would prefer to stay on my moors.”

Ivan shrugged and replaced his shirt and coat. He gestured for Natalia to follow. She released her bruising grip on Alfred’s shoulder and followed her brother into the forest. Arthur straightened and stretched, back arching and tail curling under his cloak. He still frowned at Alfred, but there was a small light of amusement in his eyes. 

“Come along then. I presume you’re lost.”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

Arthur chuckled to himself. “I knew it. Follow me. I’ll get you back to the city.” 

Alfred sulked as he followed Arthur through the forest. He didn’t need a baby sitter. So he was lost, he would have found his way out eventually. He resented that the Arthur, a _Daemon_ , had to not only save him from another maniacal Daemon, but had to take him back to the city like a lost puppy. He had gods to fuss over him. He didn’t need Arthur to as well. He caught a glimpse of the sky through the canopy. He stood, looking at it. He missed the freedom flying gave him and he swore that he’d never go anywhere without his winged boots again. 

Arthur looked back to check on Alfred and was startled when he wasn’t in sight. He backtracked and found Alfred glaring up at the sky. 

“Alfred?” The boy flinched then walked up to Arthur. 

“Sorry. Lead the way, Daemon.” Arthur was taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. He lead the way in silence. 

When they reached the edge of the trees, both let out a simultaneous sigh of relief. Alfred glanced over at Arthur in confusion. 

“These mountain forests are cramped. I like to breathe.”

“Agreed,” said Alfred. He was calmer now that they were out in the open. 

“So I will see you soon?”

“Right.” Arthur bristled at the apathy in his voice. 

“You don’t have to worry about anything, I’ll find you.”

“So you’ve said.”

Arthur’s frustration was beginning to boil over. “I suppose manners are above you. I won’t wait around for you to thank me,” he said. 

“For what?”

“For helping you, git!” Arthur snapped as he threw up his arms in exasperation. 

Alfred’s tone was still soft, but held an edge Arthur wasn’t expecting. “I didn’t need your help.”

Arthur didn’t know how to respond, so he slipped into this defensive sarcasm. “Of course you didn’t. You would just prefer to wander around in the woods until your beloved goddess found you and took you home.” Fed up, he turned and vanished. 

Alfred’s retort died on his tongue. He wandered back to the city, not looking forward to their next meeting. 

The parade had ended some time ago, and the streets were once again packed with people. Alfred wandered aimlessly through the crowds, half looking for Kiku, half lost in his own thoughts. The people in this sector of the streets were beginning to get rowdy from the amount of free alcohol that was served. Alfred felt a tug in his shirt. He turned to see a pretty girl with short, blond hair that had blue a ribbon tied in it. 

“Excuse me,” she said, voice soft but demanding, “could you help me find my brother? You’re the only one around here who isn’t drunk.”

“Of course. Where do you think he is?”

Her hands twitched in front of her red dress. Alfred could have sworn he saw a marking on her the back of her covered hand as she hid it. “I believe he is meeting with the High Priest. Women aren’t allowed in without a male escort.”

The girl wrapped her arm around Alfred’s, taking care to keep the back of her hand out of sight, and they walked towards the temple. They were almost into the courtyard when a woman screamed at them. She tall, and her willowy frame was robed in pure white. The silver circlet on her brow marked her as a high ranking dedicate of Arlya. 

“Shame on you!” she shouted as she strode over, and yanked the girl away from Alfred. She held the girl’s hand up above her head, revealing a white crescent moon on the back, the mark of a sworn Arlyan dedicate. “You disgrace the great goddess! Hanging onto the arm of a man. What could you be thinking?” 

A small crowd formed around the two women. “Chastity, purity, devotion,” she said, reciting the code of Arlya, “you have none of those!” She threw the girl to the ground. 

Alfred snapped out of his shook and tried to step in. “You’re mistaken, she—I nev--”

“Silence! You should be punished for attempted corruption of an Arylan dedicate.” 

The girl on the ground pushed herself to her feet. She faced the raging woman with impressive calm. “Priestess, please, I just wanted to find my brother.”

The priestess slapped her across the cheek. “You have no brother.” the girls eyes narrowed, “Your family was the Arlyan Dedicates, but you’ve thrown that away. You leave us no choice, if you want to remain in the city, you will become a Dedicate of Francis, since that is what you so obviously desire.”

For the first time, terror shown across the girl’s face. She stepped back in horror. The priestess caught her wrist and began to drag her out if the courtyard. Alfred was trying to process what was happening and how he could help the girl when a new shout rang out from the temple. 

“Lily!”

“Big Brother!”

A young man clad in green ran into the square. He shoved himself between the girl and the priestess, and drew his sword with a quiet swish. 

“Keep your hands off my sister, Priestess,” he snarled. He wasn’t tall, and the priestess towered over him, but the way he held his sword, as if it were an extension of his arm rather than a weapon, made the woman back away. 

“You dare draw a blade on a dedicate?”

“You dare threaten my sister with forced prostitution?” he countered. The woman blinked in surprise. The young man continued to glare. “Don’t think I don’t know what they do in this city. We may not be from here, but even we know about the Aenean Dedicates of Francis.”

The priestess glanced down the length of the sword and shuffled. “All the dedicates in Aenea are faithful. Those of Francis serve their god just as diligently as those of Arlya. We obey the only the commands of our gods.”

Alfred felt his stomach twist. Francis’ faithful were prostitutes? He knew the man was attracted to anything that moved, but promoting prostitution? It seemed to go against the entire concept of love of which Francis waxed poetic. 

Alfred’s thoughts were interrupted by a cold metal tip pointed at his heart. He jumped back and fell to the street. 

“Do you have any idea what you almost inflicted on my sister?” The young man shouted. 

“I think I understood most of it. I’m sorry! She just asked me for help. How was I supposed to know that if she were seen with a man she’d be sent into prostitution?” Cold eyes glinted. Without lifting his sword, he addressed his sister:

“Why did you follow, Lily? I sent you to the Arlyan dedicates back home to keep you safe. Now you’re here, in a city of fanatics, and a priestess has essentially just banished you.”

The girl frowned; her eyes were calm again, holding none of the fear from a moment ago. 

“I had to follow you, Vash,” she said. “What if you were hurt, or hungry, or needed some pajamas?” She reached into a knapsack she carried and pulled out some warm-looking sleepwear. “You forgot them.”

With a final glare at Alfred, Vash sheathed his sword. “Life as a mercenary is never easy. I left you for good reason,” he said, though he took his sister by the hand. 

Lily smiled. “And that is why you need me. Face it, Brother, you are not getting rid of me.” She walked over to Alfred and helped him to his feet. “Thank you for helping me,” she said. “You must forgive my brother. He gets grumpy when he has to deal with strangers.”

Alfred smiled and watched the two walked in the direction of the city gate until they vanished into the crowd. 

“Alfred, there you are!” 

He turned to see Kiku running at him. He halted and looked a bit irritated, which meant that the young man was furious, if any emotion leaked through. 

“Where have you been? Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you? Only to find you in the middle of a crowd with a raving priestess. Do you know who that woman is? She is the head priestess of the Dedicates of Arlya in this city, no woman to be trifled with,” he said in one long breath, before remembering his manners and looked down at his feet in embarrassed silence. “I apologize, Alfred, that outburst was unnecessary and unseemly.”

Alfred looked up at the sky. It was just beginning to darken. Pinks shifted to orange as they spilled across the deepening blue. “It’s alright, Kiku,” he said. “Just a misunderstanding. Nothing harmed, right?” 

Kiku gave a noncommittal sigh. “Shall we find Arlya and Heracles? The festival is winding down.”

Alfred continued to stare upwards. He was still unnerved by his encounter with Vash and his cold, sea green eyes and how the man looked perfectly willing to pierce Alfred with his sword. Sea green darkened to forest-green and Alfred found himself playing over his recent meeting with the Arthur. 

“Alfred?”

His pride was still wounded from the encounter. Not to mention he could feel a paw-shaped bruise blooming on his chest. He resented that Arthur had to save him, and his condescension was infuriating, but Alfred figured he could have been a bit more grateful. 

“I’m coming, Kiku.”

* * *

 

Alfred sat on his bed, staring at nothing. He shut his eyes and rubbed them, trying to rid them of the afterimage of the Daemon. He grabbed a pillow and hit himself in the head with it. 

“Get out. Get out. Get out,” he said. Every syllable punctuated with a soft thud. Soft hands pried the pillow from Alfred’s fingers and he looked up into Arlya’s concerned face. 

“You’re meeting it tomorrow, aren’t you?” she murmured. 

“Him,” Alfred corrected. “I’m a bit nervous. He insulted me last time.” 

Anger flashed in Arlya’s eyes. “I should go with you and make that filthy creature lift the oath. You don’t deserve something like this to happen to you. I’ll teach it a to mess with the gods’ chosen—“

“Arlya, stop! I don’t need you to protect me anymore.” He scowled at her. “Remember what you said this morning? I’m an adult. I can take care of my own problems. I don’t need you to take care of everything for me.”

Arlya’s eyes were widened. This was her baby boy. He would always need her. Despite her assurances to herself, the doubt still hung. She had to be sure he was still hers. She let the grief she felt at the possibility of losing her boy flow through her, choking her voice and filling her eyes with tears. 

Guilt tore through Alfred as he looked on, and his frustration vanished. He stood up and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry; I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” How could he forget how Arlya could swing from fine, to angry, to weepy in a matter of seconds? She did it to manipulate the other gods, but she wouldn’t do it to him, would she? No, her trusted her.

“Of course you did,” she said, voice quavering, though triumphant gleamed in her eyes. Her worries lifted. Alfred was still hers; his immediate response to her tears proved it.  “But I forgive you, Alfred, and in celebration of your new adulthood,” she allowed herself a small smirk at the irony as Alfred had just proved he was still under the moon goddess’ influence, “I have something for you.” She pulled out of Alfred’s grasp and slipped a pendant out of the fold of her robe. 

Alfred took it from her. It was a study silver chain with a small hourglass pendant hanging from it. It was graceful, the glass was held in a cage of golden wires. He squinted at the hourglass within. There was no sand, but the center was encased in clear crystal. 

He glanced up at Arlya, her eyes were still wet and she looked so eager. In hopes of soothing her, Alfred slipped the pendant over his head and felt a chill run over and through him. He looked up at Arlya in alarm. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“It’s a charm, Heracles helped me make it. It has frozen your age. The last Daemon wars went on for over a century, and the gods wish to preserve you.”

Alfred slipped it under his tunic where the cold metal found an unobtrusive place to rest. 

“Thank you.”

Arlya pulled him close. “You’re welcome, my baby.” With a final squeeze, she rose and left. 

Alfred pulled out the pendant again, examining it. He could tell by its design that Arlya had crafted it, though the spells were Heracles’ specialty. He wondered if she had added anything to it. 

He slipped it back down his neck and reached over and grabbed his lyre. He warmed his fingers up and began practicing some of his favorite pieces. He pondered which ones he should play for Arthur tomorrow. The Daemon’s snide remarks on his playing still stung, and Alfred was determined to try to impress him, or at least avoid any more insults. 

“Why is every song Francis teaches me about love?” he asked his lyre, though the answer was obvious. He made a note to explain that to Arthur. 

He blew out the candle by his bed and lay back. He fidgeted from side to side, finally ending up on his stomach clutching a pillow. He tried to push down his nerves. Arthur left him earlier in an irritated huff, and the prospect of meeting him again was frightening. 

“Why did I agree to this again? Why didn’t just I let Arlya deal with it?” 

Lonely green eyes swam in his vision. 

“Ugh!” he said, grabbing his pillow again. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”


	7. The First Meeting

“Alfred, if you can’t sit still you’re going to have to leave,” Francis sighed as he rubbed his temples. “It’s obvious your mind is elsewhere.”

Alfred set down his lyre and stared at the calluses beginning to form on the sides of his fingers. He maintained his silence despite Francis’s expectant gaze. Francis frowned. The boy’s silence concerned him. He usually couldn’t get Alfred to shut up, but today he’d hardly spoken two complete sentences. 

“You can talk to me, Alfred,” said Francis, as he laid a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. The boy flinched. “I have done nothing I can recall as offensive. Or might this be about your little meeting later tonight?” 

Alfred shrugged, saying nothing. He was nervous for tonight, that much was true. Arthur had haunted his thoughts all night, as the circles under his eyes could attest, but his daily practice session with Francis also brought back the disturbing encounter of the day before. What Vash had said about the dedicates of Francis weighed on Alfred’s mind. It didn’t make sense to him. Francis could be superficial and petty sometimes, but Alfred would never expect him to condone — let alone encourage — prostitution in his name. 

He glanced up into Francis’ blue eyes. Alfred opened his mouth several times, closed it several times. “I didn’t think you were like that,” he finally said. 

Francis blinked in confusion. “Happy we’ve got that cleared up,” he said sarcastically and grabbed Alfred’s shoulders. “Like what?” he asked. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Them — your dedicates. How could you really tell them to do something like that. It’s wrong!” said Alfred, eyes swimming in confusion.

Francis wracked his brain. His dedicates were mostly upstanding people who gave their lives to art and love. Alfred did tend to have a black and white view of morality, but what could have caused such a reaction?

“Aenea,” he whispered. The boy must had seen or heard something about his dedicates in Aenea while he was there. Francis pressed his palms into his eyes. 

“You heard something at the festival?” he asked. Alfred nodded. “I understand now, but Alfred, please believe it when I say that I in no way condone their behavior. My dedicates — my real dedicates — give their lives to art and their families.”

Alfred stared at the god. His response and explanation were reassuring, but brought to light a more urgent issue in Alfred’s mind. 

“Then why don’t you stop them?” he asked, frustrated. “Those people are devoted to you, if you said something—“

“Do you think I haven’t tried? It’s not so simple.”

“What’s not simple about it? You tell them to stop, they’ll obey. That’s what dedicates do.”

“Whoever told you that was lying,” said Francis, his voice weary.

That took Alfred by surprise. It had never occurred to him that the priestess might have been anything but truthful. 

“What do you mean?” he asked cautiously. 

Francis let out another sigh and turned his back to Alfred. He stood in silence, pondering the dimming sky. 

“The dedicates claim to follow only the orders of the gods, and many honestly do. But there are also places, such as Aenea, where that gets lost.” He paused and began pacing. 

“Alfred, promise me that anything I say stays between us and will never leave this hill.”

Alfred nodded. 

“Cities, such as Aenea rely on a strict hierarchy to function,”he explained. “That many people simply can’t live together and not establish one. And over time, those hierarchies may—“

A swooshing sound cut him off. Arlya appeared on the hillside, a smile on her lips but an almost angry look in her eyes. 

“Alfred, it’s time to go,” she said and extended her hand. Alfred didn’t take it, but stood by her, looking back at Francis still confused. The god of love gave a slight shake of his head, cutting off any lingering questions. He locked eyes with Arlya, her angry glare falling on his now defiant one. 

With a frown, Arlya grabbed Alfred’s hand and took him to the gate of Caelei. 

Alfred looked up at the impressive marble archway. A star hung from the keystone, with a paper charms hanging from each point as if waiting for a non-existent wind. 

“Just think of where you want to go when you pass under. You’ll end up there,” the goddess said. Alfred nodded. He had heard all this before.

She squeezed his hand. “I can get you out of this. I’ll find that Daemon and force him to release you.”

The offer was tempting. Alfred wasn’t eager for his next encounter with Arthur, but he wouldn’t back down so easily. Something stubborn rose up within him. No, he would go through with their agreement, at least for now, and see where it took him. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he doubted if he could stop thinking about the Daemon if he didn’t see him again. Alfred scowled at those eyes in his brain. No, he told himself, nothing to do with that at all. 

“No, Arlya. It’s not worth it. He won’t hurt me, so please, stop worrying.”

“He won’t hurt you? Where ever did that idea come from?”

Alfred ignored her. He wasn’t convinced of it himself, but had already resolved himself to go. He jerked his hand away and strode under the archway, vanishing into the mortal realm. 

He stumbled as he was tossed from the gate by some unseen force, but he was not met with the cobbled stones of the threshold, but rather a soft dampness. He pushed himself up from the grassy hillside and straightened his glasses. The sun was lowering in the west, unhidden by the few wispy clouds in the sky. The golden light bathed the rolling hills, catching here and there off pools and little creeks. 

Alfred turned his face up at the gentle breeze that rustled over the grass. It was chilly with humidity from an recent rain storm but thick with a vitality that the static air of Caelei lacked. True to his vow at the festival, he had come in his messenger’s boots, white wings humming with anticipation. He flung himself into the air. The hills fell away below as he climbed towards the setting sun. The wind was stronger the higher he flew but the growing chill faded in the joy of flying through real, living air. 

He spun and flipped and practiced all his acrobatics in the sweet air, only halting when he noticed a black-cloaked figure gazing at him. Alfred swooped down, touching down next to Arthur, who watched him with an unreadable expression. 

Alfred opened his mouth to apologize for not coming down sooner when Arthur spoke first. 

“You love it, don’t you? Flying?”

Unsure how to reply, Alfred just nodded. 

“I liked watching you. You’re movements up there, they’re happy and very free,” he continued, expression open and almost curious. 

“I guess,” Alfred said, smiling. Arthur gave a small, barely-there smile of his own, and gestured up the hill. “Come along then.”

Alfred followed, tripping a few times over stones that Arthur’s paws just seemed to glide over. They reached the crest of the hill where between a circle of boulders a small gathering of firewood, a clay cooking pot, a pile of vegetables, and two dead rabbits were laid. 

“As you’re mine for the night, I figured you’d want to eat sometime,” he said in explanation. He found two boulders rather close together and reclined against one of them, indicating for Alfred to do the same. 

Alfred brought out his lyre and shuffled his shoulders against the lichen-covered stone. He glanced over at Arthur whose russet tail was draped over his lap, out of the mud, and noticed the hint of a smile still on his face. 

“You’re in an awfully good mood today” he said. “It’s been a couple minutes and you haven’t insulted me yet.”

“Well, that needs to change, as you are an idiot,” said Arthur, though there was little venom in it. “I suppose I am happy, though. It’s rare to have such a sunny day. Not that rain bothers me, but days such as this are… pleasant.”

Alfred let the silence hang a moment before strumming a few chords. He glanced up at Arthur, whose eyes were closed in enjoyment.

“I have to warn you,” Alfred said, “I everything I know is about love.”

Arthur snorted. “Francis is you teacher correct? That fool hasn’t changed a bit.”

Alfred’s fingers picked across the strings, warming themselves up. “You know Francis?” he asked. 

“Of course I do,” Arthur said. “Anyone who has been around as long as we have will know each other in one way or another.”

“Even though he’s a god?”

“Especially because he’s a god. Now, stop talking and begin.”

Alfred bit down the questions that were raising in his mind and launched into on of his favorite pieces. The world fell away as the music filled his mind, taking up all of his concentration. His audience was forgotten as the notes drifted from the strings, occasionally missed but then quickly fixed.

The wetness in the air and covering Alfred from his flight began to chill as the sun set and a breeze picked up. The sky bled red as the last of the light tipped behind the horizon. In a moment, everything was washed blue. Alfred strained his eyes and ignored the small shivers that ran up his damp back and neck. It was only after a horribly dissonant slip that Arthur raised protest. 

“What was that?” he demanded. “I though you were going to play for me, not maim my ears.”

Alfred flinched at the comment but fought back. “I can’t see anything anymore and my fingers are freezing—“

“Oh woe is you. Life must be hard.”

“If I’m so bad, you can just let me go and find another human to slave over an instrument for you,” Alfred responded, voice tight with hurt and frustration. 

Arthur’s expression softened from outright irritation to mild exasperation. “You’re not bad, per say,” he said, getting to his feet. “Just careless. You get ahead of yourself and then you trip over your own fingers. Slow down a bit, and you’ll be better.”

“It also helps when I can see,” said Alfred. He shook out his hands and rubbed his arms, trying to ward of the chill. A gust of night air blew over his neck and into his damp hair, sending him into an involuntary spasm. 

Arthur noticed this with a frown and slung off his cloak from his shoulders. Muttering something about idiots and catching death, he tossed it to Alfred who slipped under the worn but warm material without a second thought. 

“Thanks,” said Alfred. “I don’t deal well with cold.”

Arthur nodded in acknowledgement, a small frown just barely visible in the night. “So it would seem. But I won’t allow you to get out of our arrangement so easily,” he said shifting into an outright glare, “I could have let you been ripped to shreds, so you still owe me. A couple of ballads doesn’t begin to cover your debt to me.”

Alfred nodded, suppressing a comment about how Arthur had ordered for Alfred to be killed in the first place. He stood and wrapped the cloak around himself as he watched Arthur build a the beginnings of a fire. He looked on with interest and was startled when Arthur addressed him. 

“Sorry, what did you say?”

Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh and repeated, “Would you mind getting the fire going? I was going to prepare the ingredients for some stew.”

Alfred was thankful the night hid his face. “I don’t know how,” he mumbled to his boots. 

“Come again?”

“I don’t know how. Never made a fire before. Sorry.”

“Can’t say I’m all that surprised,” Arthur said. “Would you like me to teach you?”

Alfred’s head jerked up at the unexpected offer. Arthur looked up at him from the pile of wood expectantly. “Sure,” Alfred said, “If you don’t mind.”

“Not particularly. I doubt survival skills are something the gods teach their pets.” He beckoned Alfred beside him. “First the kindling— these little pieces here. We’ll made a little pile of them, plenty of air of course. Now when those start to burn we’ll begin adding the bigger pieces.”

Alfred imitated the kindling pile perfectly on his first try, and though he had some trouble at first getting a piece of flint to spark, he managed it well enough. Soon Arthur and Alfred were tending a healthy fire, and Alfred felt better for the warmth. Arthur didn’t seem to be bothered by the chill in the air as he moved around, attending to the rabbits and the vegetables. Alfred was given a water-filled clay pot to hang over the fire, which was a task in itself. Finally he had it hanging from a careful construction of branches that he was quite proud of. 

Arthur walked over and deposited he chunks of rabbit meat along with what just looked like plain grass into the water. Alfred watched him, never having cooked himself. Arthur was careful and methodical as he prepared the stew, counting stirs to the left and right in what looked to Alfred a very complicated and precise method. 

Awhile later Arthur declared it ready. Arthur looked at the bowl that was presented to him with curiosity. Meals in Caelei were never so rustic, as Heracles, Francis, and Gilbert insisted, and the latter two often competed, on preparing the food. Alfred lifted the bowl to his lips and took a sip of the broth. He froze, eyes wide. It was the worst thing he had ever tasted, including the snails Francis made occasionally. He managed to swallow the mouthful of broth that tasted of warm dirt. He gasped, trying to pull fresh air into his mouth to rid it out the gamey, dirty taste. 

Arthur watched the display with a frown. He sipped from his own bowl and though the taste was not good by any means, he didn’t think that strong of a reaction was necessary. 

“What is this?” Alfred demanded.

“Stew.”

“Are you sure?”

Arthur huffed, his face reddening in the firelight. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said. “I can’t be blamed if you have no taste.”

“If I don’t, it’s because whatever this is killed all sense of it I had,” Alfred retorted, swirling his bowl. The near raw vegetables clicked against each other and the chunks of rubbery, grainy meat floated in the poor broth. 

“You don’t have to eat it, you know,” Arthur said. “But you could be a little more grateful. I gathered all of this myself. I thought you might appreciate something warm, but I suppose I was wrong. Is gratitude beneath you? I lead you out of a forest that you were miserably lost in, and got the same reaction.”

Alfred didn’t meet his gaze. He wrapped Arthur’s cloak tighter around his chilled body as the itch of guilt he had felt the last day grew and gnawed at him. Almost no one treated him with anything but condescension and Alfred had had enough. He had taken his frustration out on Arthur, someone whose feelings he had been taught ever since he was small didn’t exist or didn’t matter. 

He took another long sip from the bowl, crunching some of the undercooked vegetables but holding down any grimace he was tempted to let slip. It might taste awful, but Arthur was right about one thing, it was warm and it helped dispel some of the chill that clung to him. The Daemon watched Alfred finish his stew in silence, then stare at the empty bowl. He sat there, occasionally opening his mouth, as if to speak, only to shut it again. 

“But if you don’t mind me asking,” Alfred said with a gesture at the stew pot, “where did you learn to cook?”

Arthur’s face bloomed scarlet and he found some piece of the darkening sky to scowl at. “I never did learn,” he admitted, “not properly at least. It never occurred to me to try to prepare food until humans started to inhabit my moors. I tasted some of their food some time ago, and it was better than any raw rabbit or deer. So I watched them, and tried to learn that way. Needless to say, I’m still learning.”

“So all that precision?”

“Just something to make me feel as if I know what I’m doing.”

Alfred shot the Daemon a tentative grin. Arthur didn’t return it, his face still a bit flushed. They fell into a companionable silence as Arthur poured himself some more stew and Alfred traced idle patterns around his bowl. The sun had completely set, leaving the two with only their small fire for light. Arthur had just put down his bowl when Alfred spoke again. 

“Thank you for helping me out yesterday,” he said with uncharacteristic softness, “I would have been lost in there for who knows how long if it weren’t for you.”

Arthur huffed, unwilling to forgive so quickly. “That’s what I told you, but you sulked the entire way. It was rude, and I won’t be so eager to help you again.”

Alfred bristled. “I sulked because I’m sick of everyone treating me like a child—“

“You are a child,” Arthur commented.

“Am not.”

“You certainly act like one.”

Alfred felt an angry flush run over his face. He decided to not respond to that last comment. 

“Anyways,” he continued, “I was supposed to be at the festival to celebrate my own adulthood, and the last thing Arlya says is for Kiku to keep an eye on me. That’s how someone treats a child, not an independent adult. I mean, sure, Kiku and I are good friends, but it was the principle of it all.”

He fidgeted under the cloak, then stood and shifted from foot to foot. The flickering firelight caught his stormy eyes and threw shadows across his upset face. 

“And then, I was lost and everything, I have to be lead out of the stupid forest by a _Daemon_ —“

Arthur stood himself, in one fast, fluid motion. “And what does that have to do with anything?” he asked, eyes narrowed and hands clenching. 

Alfred was startled by the Daemon’s burning eyes. “What? Wait, nothing really, it wasn’t because you’re a Daemon, okay so maybe it was a little but—“

“But what?” Arthur demanded. “If I help you, you resent it just because of what I am, but if Arlya had come to fetch her little pet—“

“Stop it!”

“No,” Arthur said, “Look at them, how they treat you. You’re their animal, their little plaything for whenever they get bored. I’ve known Arlya for millennia, everyone is just a toy to her. You’re not an exception.”

Alfred flinched. The truth of the words cut him to his core. Arthur took his silence as affirmation. 

“Then why should it matter what I am?” he asked. He swept around the fire and grabbed Alfred by the clasp of the cloak. His burning green eyes pierced Alfred’s blue ones, forcing him to hold his glare. “I helped you. I didn’t have to, nothing was stopping me from leaving. But I helped. I showed you the way back. I didn’t patronize you or take advantage of you in any way, yet you still resent it because I happen to be a Daemon! Why?”

Alfred caught Arthur’s wrists and attempted to hold him away. Finally, he found his voice. 

“I don’t mean to!” he said, trying to shove Arthur away from him. The Daemon clung fast. “Whenever I see you, I see what you’re supposed to be, what I was told you are. You helped me, and my brain knows that— I know that— and am grateful, but a little part of me couldn’t drop the thought it was a conscious-less, slaughter-reveling Daemon guiding me. The villain of the stories Arlya used put me to bed with, horrible stories of Daemons and what they did to people and the gods.”

“What? What did we do?”

“In the stories? You were blood thirsty monsters. You killed for the sake of killing, the thrill of the slaughter, the high the screams of your victims gave you,” Alfred said. He clawed at Arthur’s hands as they pulled the cloak too tight around his neck. “Arlya told me that you would cut me open alive and drink my blood if you ever caught me. She made me scared of you.”

“And you went along with it?” Arthur growled. “Never once did you think of finding out for yourself, because Arlya must know everything. Why question her? Who would think of doing something so bold as questioning?” He threw Alfred to the ground with disgust. 

“Of course I didn’t question her!” said Alfred, propping himself up on his elbows. “She’s my mother! Maybe not literally, but she’s the only thing I have! Of course I trusted her.”

Arthur stared down at him in silence. His face hidden in shadow. Alfred took it as a sign to continue. 

“But why do you think I’m here?” he asked. “Sure the blood oath is a part of it, but do you really think Arlya can’t find a way to break it? She wanted to come down here and kill you herself. I’m here because every time I’m around you a part of me fears that this’ll change into those stories. I can tell myself over and over that it won’t happen, that it was just a story, but the fear is still there. I hate the fear. I hate that cold trembling in my gut. I’m here because I won’t be frightened of stories anymore.”

He looked, holding Arthur’s eyes, just glints of reflected firelight. 

“Yet you are.” Arthur’s voice was cold. “You are still frightened of the stories, of me.”

Alfred nodded not breaking eye contact. “I don’t expect you to understand, but a mother’s words are hard to forget.”

Arthur turned to the fire. His eyes were pressed shut, whether with anger or something else, Alfred couldn’t tell. His head hung against his chest and his entire front was illuminated by the dancing, erratic shadows the fire threw. 

“You’re wrong,” he whispered. “I understand.”

He sat down beside the fire, a small distance away from where Alfred still lay on the ground. His eyes were still held closed, though the rest of his face gave no indication of his feelings. He motioned beside him. 

“Come,” he said, voice soft and distant. “Play some more.”

Alfred slid close to the Daemon, pulling cloak after him. He held his hands up to the fire, letting the warmth sink into his fingers. He watched Arthur next to him, curious, though he didn’t press. The Daemon’s reaction confused him, and he felt his own anger melt as it slid off the other’s face. 

“Anything in particular?” Alfred asked after a pause. 

Arthur shook his head. 

With a last confused glance, he began. It was quieter than last time, and no bickering interrupted him. Eventually Arthur opened his eyes. He was a statue, unmoving, as he stared into the heart of the fire with unreadable eyes. Alfred glanced over to him every so often, wondering what he was thinking about, what had made his anger fall so suddenly.

The night grew late and Alfred felt his eyes grow heavy. Arthur still hadn’t moved from his place by the fire. He let the last measure of the song die, and when Arthur didn’t comment on the silence, curled up under the black cloak Arthur hadn’t taken back. He told himself it was just for a moment, he was just resting his stinging eyes, but with his arm as a pillow and the cloak over him, he drifted to sleep. 

Alfred woke with a shivering start to a diffuse, grey light of the overcast morning sky. He blinked and sat up, finding his glasses were wet with dew and crooked on his nose. He was still on the top of the hill. The pile of cinders remained next to him, but Arthur was gone, as was his cloak. 


	8. War Council

“It doesn’t matter. Kill them. All of them!” Alfred flinched from his corner of the hall as Daka slammed her fist into the arm of her throne. “Why should we give a damn about casualties? They’re nomads and heretics besides. They follow _her_.”

Pakram gave a long suffering sigh. Daka was volatile at the best of times, but now spring was warming to summer and Pakram’s, and therefore the other gods’, power was waxing. The goddess was seething with bloodlust. The quieter winter months were over and Daka was eager to begin the campaign against the Daemon’s in earnest. 

While Pakram admired Daka’s energy, her lack of restraint could be cause for concern. He studied her with his ever even gaze, and she met him, eyes shining madly.

“While it is true the southern nomads are devoted to the Daemon,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “they are nonetheless our people. I cannot permit their slaughter in good conscience.”

Daka hissed and clenched the arms of her throne, though she did not argue. Gilbert reached over and squeezed her shoulder. She shrugged him off, not in the mood for the god’s gesture. He continued to watch her with worry as she glowered through the rest of the council. As the meeting adjourned with no action decided on, she swept out of the hall appearing a moment later on the balcony of the mountainside she called home. 

She seethed. She gripped the metal until her fingers imprinted in it, her rage boiling within her. Her fingers were pried off the metal by two, large, pale hands. 

“Daka.”

“I don’t want any of your ridiculous feelings, Gilbert. I don’t need comfort. I want action. I want vengeance,” said Daka, looking out at Caelei with frustration.

Gilbert sighed. “I hate them too. I hate what they did to us, all those years ago. But it was all of them, not just her.”

“Do you think I really care?” she asked, pale eyes glinting. When she spoke again, her voice was laced with excitement more than anger. “I want her dead. I want to feel her blood warm against my skin, smell her flesh burning against my sword. She plays the custodian of a worthless, homeless people; they adore her. But I know what she is. What she really is. She’s as bad as me, she has blood on her hands. Every casualty of this war is on her head. I want to prove that to her, then feel her life drain away across my palms.”

“Every warrior needs a rival,” Gilbert sighed. “I suppose she’s yours. Though still, why her? Why Elizaveta? Natalia is more your equal in fighting.”

“Because she has the gaul to act as though she has a heart, that those nomads matter to her. As if they matter to anyone! See, Elizaveta is someone I can not only defeat, but someone I can break. That’s the fun in it,” Daka chuckled. 

Gilbert looked on with guarded eyes. “So it is,” he said without feeling vanishing behind her.

Daka continued to chuckle. “Time was once when my bloodlust was arousing,” she said to the still air. “Gilbert’s going soft. A pity, I like him. I suppose it might be worth my time to remind him of the offerings of the war goddess.” 

She pushed herself up from the railing of her balcony and vanished in search of Gilbert.

* * *

 

As no one had asked for him, Alfred left the council and flew over to spend the afternoon with Kiku. They lazed under the unchanging sky playing with Heracles’ cats. They talked of nothing important, mostly the ever changing alliances and rivalries between the gods and goddesses, with lapses into a content silence. 

“So have you noticed Daka lately?” Alfred asked, allowing a grey tabby to chew on his fingers. “Spending more time with usual with Vahnic.”

“I suppose,” said Kiku. “Odd. They were not on best of terms just a year ago. And that is a short time for a god.”

“Gilbert’s probably jealous. Wonder how he’s dealing with the sudden change,” Alfred smirked, glancing over to his friend, who shook his head. 

“Nothing has changed, really. I’m sure the same scenario has happened before, possibly several times.”

“Probably. Even after all these eons the gods haven’t changed at all.”

“Of course not,” Kiku said. “The gods, Caelei itself, is perfect, complete. Nothing here changes. Everything of Caelei is static, sterile, yet forever preserved.”

Alfred turned on his back and gazed at the motionless sky, the unchanging mountains. “Makes sense,” he said. “But what about us? Aren’t we changes here? New additions?”

“Yes, but we are not of Caelei. We are mortal, subjects not to these laws but those of our own realm.”

Alfred hummed and let the conversation die, though it remained in his thoughts. Caelei was static, a trait that made Alfred uneasy more and more since his recent forays into the mortal realm. There were no seasons in Caelei, only the length of the days marked the passage of a year. But that in itself was a unfaltering cycle. 

“How is everything going with Arthur?” Kiku asked

Alfred huffed and laid his head on his hands. “Fine, I guess. I’ve been there, what, maybe five times? Our first meeting was the only time he ever really talked. Hasn’t spoken more than three sentences to my since.”

“And does that bother you?”

“What?” Alfred said. “Not really. Whenever he does speak he insults me. And the first time when he did speak we argued most of the time. I wouldn’t really say it’s quite companionable, but the quiet is better than him trying to strangle me.”

Kiku shook his head at his friend, bemused, and let it slip into silence. 

Alfred had closed his eyes when a shadow covered him. He looked up into Francis’ impatient face. The god was more anxious than Alfred had seen him since the day our their battle at Aenea. 

“Hey Francis, is it time for our lesson already? I could have sworn—“

“No, no. I have a job for you. It’s urgent.”

“A job?”

“Yes,” snapped Francis. “Are you not the messenger of the gods?” 

Alfred scrambled to his feet. “Of course I am,” he said with a touch of indigence. 

“Good. I need you to find Daka.”

“Sure, then what?”

“Just tell me if you find her.”

Francis turned and was gone. 

“I wonder what he wants with her,” Kiku wondered. “By anyone’s standards, those two hate each other.”

“Well,” Alfred said, stretching his hands above his head, “Better go find out. I am the heavenly messenger after all.”

Kiku chuckled as Alfred threw himself into the air.

He rose through the heavy, still air, mindful of the temperamental barrier that had thrown him out before. He made one preliminary sweep of Caelei. The mountains were as unyielding as ever, stony and cold, blocking Alfred’s gaze wherever they rose. He dove and swept through the outer canyons, though he saw no one. Undeterred, he made his way to Daka’s home, landing gracefully on her balcony. A cough startled him. 

Gilbert stood across the balcony, fidgeting though he was trying to appear unconcerned. He strode over to Alfred.

“Have you seen her?” he asked. 

“Not yet,” Alfred replied. “I thought there might be some clue or something in her rooms.”

“I haven’t found anything, but I’ll keep checking. Maybe she’s in a canyon somewhere, practicing—“

“Right. I’ll go look for her,” Alfred said and turned to leave. “Gilbert, calm down. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Her safety’s not what I’m concerned about,” Gilbert muttered to himself.

Alfred sought out the confined cliffs usually used by the gods when they wanted to be alone. He dodged through spires and reached the highest of platforms, searching for the missing goddess. Every empty landing left him with a growing sense of dread. 

He hovered above the great expanse of cliffs and canyons. Where could she have gone? Daka rarely left Caelei, and then only on some kind of war campaign. Shoving down his anxiety, he dove into the canyons, searching the winding trails for the lost goddess. 

It was only after nearly losing himself that he conceded defeat. Daka was nowhere he could find. Just in case, he did another general sweep of the mountains before returning anxiously to Daka’s rooms. 

Gilbert paced along the balcony, running his hand through his hair. Francis was also present, leaning against the railing and rubbing his palms into his eyes. Alfred touched down next to the gods, and cleared his throat. 

“I couldn’t find her, I have no idea where she could be.”

Gilbert and Francis exchanged a glance. 

“We do, unfortunately,” said Gilbert.

“What? Where?”

Francis took over. “We feared it this morning, and more when she vanished. She’s gone to war.”

Alfred cocked his head in confusion. Francis continued, “You heard her, no? At the war council? She wanted to attack Elizaveta, a high Daemon, and her nomads. They travel to the northern edges of the plains this time of year, close to some of Daka’s army camps. They’re probably marching now.”

“Daka doesn’t care if she slaughters the nomads on her way to Elizaveta,” Gilbert explained. “In fact, she’d probably enjoy it. The more slaughter, the better.”

“The nomads are a formidable force,” Francis said, turning to Gilbert. “And they are devoted to the Daemon. Daka underestimates their strength. Elizaveta herself is not to be taken lightly, and she has a tactical advantage over Daka.”

“What’s that?” Alfred asked. 

“She can fly,” Gilbert said darkly. “Alfred,” he said, turning to the boy, “You have to find Daka. She’s an excellent fighter, but I need to know if she’s going to be alright. I have nothing against the nomads, in fact I like them despite their loyalty to a Daemon, but if Daka’s in trouble I’ll fight them all to get to her.”

Alfred had never seen Gilbert so passionate, with a glance at Francis, who just gave him an unreadable stare, and he found himself agreeing. Gilbert grabbed Alfred’s shoulder and they appeared at the gates of Caelei. The path out of the mountains continued deceptively beyond the marble. Alfred looked up at Gilbert. 

“You’ve never been where I need you to go,” he said. “Think of a place where the mountain forest fades into a tall grassland. There’s river running beside you, coming out of the mountains behind you. In the distance you can see the outline of a city. You should end up close enough to where the fighting will be.”

“And once I find her, how do I get back?”

“The pendant Arlya gave you. Spin the hourglass it and call Arlya’s name. She’ll find you and bring you back.”

Alfred nodded and steeled himself. 

“Please, Alfred,” Gilbert added, “bring her back safely.”

“Don’t worry, Gil, I’m up to it,” Alfred laughed and stepped through the gate.

“You better be,” Gilbert said to the empty air.

* * *

 

“Would you like some stew, _anima_?” 

A young woman offered a bowl of thick stew to the windswept Daemon. The Daemon laughed, a light, bell-like noise, and brushed her long, brown hair from her face. 

“I’d love some,” she said, taking the wooden bowl and spoon. She took a spoonful of the savory broth and sipped it. “It’s wonderful.”

The young woman’s face broke into a shy smile. “Would you care to join us, _anima_? It would be an honor.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

The daemon was led back to a cooking fire surrounded by content people and their well-cared for horses. The young woman’s family greeted the daemon with familiar courtesy. She tucked her great wings close to her back and joined in the lively conversation. 

“So what news do you have of the other clans, Elizaveta?” asked an older man. 

“Life goes on much in other clans as it does here. There’s not much to tell. I’d rather hear about your lives since I’ve been gone.”

Elizaveta listened as the group recited their most recent adventures: hunting mishaps, thrown horseshoes, and their last visit to the city. She was helping clean the wooden cookware when she heard a thundering of hooves. She looked up, but the nomad camp was calm. She handed the bowl she was washing to a little girl beside her.

“Hold onto this, will you?” she said absently and took two running steps and threw herself into the air. Great brown, dappled wings snapped open and beat down against the warm summer air. A few beats more and she was high enough to soar towards the oncoming pounding. She swooped, catching a thermal to lift her high above the plain. 

She was stunned by what she saw. An army squadron, maybe a thousand strong, marching towards the plain where her nomads had settled. The nomads maybe had a total of several hundred, including children and the elders, there was no way they’d get away without being slaughtered, if that’s what these soldiers desired. 

Elizaveta circled down, hovering before the assembled ranks. She summoned her loudest voice and shouted, “Soldiers of the mountains, some of my people have settled on the plains ahead; I must ask you to make your way around them so as not to trample them or their camp.”

She was met with an unnerving silence. Spilling the air from her wings, she alighted before them. “Who is your commander? I wish to speak with them.”

Silence again. The soldiers glared at the daemon, armor and swords clinking restlessly. 

“Who commands you?” she demanded. 

A soft chuckling danced through the ranks. A single, contemptuous laugh that made Elizaveta’s blood run cold. 

“If it isn’t the little rat herself,” said a cool voice emerging from the ranks of soldiers. The goddess emerged, magnificent in full scarlet plate and her sword gleaming at her side. She was dressed for battle whereas Elizaveta wore nothing but her flying leathers. 

“Daka.”

“Elizaveta.”

“What do you want with my people?”

“Your _people?_ ” Daka simpered. “I didn’t realize those worthless heretics could be considered people.”

Elizaveta narrowed her eyes but refused to give into the taunt. She glared at Daka then turned to leave. The war goddess, having been bored by the taunts already, lunged, drawing her sword with a grating hiss. She swung at the daemon, who twisted to the side and buffeted Daka with a heavy wing. Daka recovered effortlessly and swung at Elizaveta’s head. 

With a small gasp, the Daemon ducked and, though she hated to retreat, she had no weapon with which to defend herself. She dashed to the side and let her wings snap open and catch the air. With a final shriek, Daka leapt for her only to miss by several handspans. The edges of Elizaveta’s wings caught her on the down stroke, knocking her back to earth. A few wing beats later and she was skimming the grassy fields, flying as as fast as her wings could carry her. She fluttered to a stop midair, above the calm camp. 

Her people looked up at her with confusion and a bit of fear. She touched down in front of the camp, where the clan leaders and their families were circled around. She rested her fingers against the long grass as her wings slumped on the ground. The matriarch waited for Elizaveta to regain her breath. 

“Coming… Soldier’s… several hundred—maybe a thousand… flee… need to,” she sputtered. 

The matriarch was alarmed and shouted a warning that spread like wildfire through the camp. Elizaveta straightened and was about to take to the air again when she felt metal slice and burn through her side accompanied by a manic shriek. Daka slide to a halt before spinning back to Elizaveta. With a cruel smile she flung herself at the daemon who managed to deflect the most of the blow. 

Elizaveta’s mind clouded with the pain smoldering in her side. She forced it down and focused on the whirlwind coming at her. Daka moved with the rage of a brushfire, wild and uncontainable and Elizaveta couldn’t find a her footing to strike back. She weaved, slapping Daka with edges of her speckled wings, but she couldn’t manage to knock the goddess off balance for long enough to gain the advantage. 

Daka rushed the daemon again, but was knocked off course by a screeching body. The young woman who had given Elizaveta her stew rammed into Daka, throwing both of them to the ground. 

“How dare you attack the _anima_! How dare you! How dare you!” 

Daka rolled, regaining her feet and held the woman by the hair. She turned to the gathering crowd. 

“This is what happens to heretics,” she spat, and with practiced efficiency, twisted the woman’s neck and threw her to the ground. The mob fell silent, grief and anger welling up within them, though the goddess’ voice held them as if enchanted. 

“An army is marching on these plains as I speak, a thousand strong. Do you really think you can do anything against them?” she sneered. 

Elizaveta stared down at the dead woman in horror and sorrow. Fury welled up in her at the goddess, always the goddess, she would pay for that unnecessary death. With a battle cry, she grabbed the polished wooden handle of an abandoned cooking pan and swung. Daka turned, startled, and took the blow to the shoulder. She cried out in pain but drew her sword and stabbed at Elizaveta, who parried with the flat bottom of the pan and skipped backwards, drawing Daka away from her people and to where she could use her wings to their fullest. 

The army reached the camp. The nomads took up Elizaveta’s battle cry and rushed the surprised soldiers armed with iron cookware and long hunting knives. Their ferocity made the well-trained army stumble, though they held their ground. 

With a satisfied glance at the nomads, Elizaveta readjusted her grip on the cooking pan, using two hands to grip the wooden handle but careful to avoid the iron pan itself. She stretched out her wings, nearly doubling her own height as she glared at Daka. 

The goddess leapt and darted around the daemon, attacking as fast as she could. Elizaveta danced in and out of reach, for despite the apparent bulk of her eagle wings, they lent her an lightness of foot that Daka couldn’t match. She saw the frustration grow in Daka’s expression as she failed to land a heavy blow. She used it to her advantage, daring closer and closer to the goddess until she began to become careless with frustration. 

Her strategy worked well. Daka had taken several heavy blows from the pan, but she still fought with the deadly energy that made here feared and renowned as a warrior. Eventually Elizaveta slowed, pulling back as her arms trembled from the heavy weight of the pan. She chanced a look to see how her people were faring against Daka’s soldiers. The sight was horrifying. Bodies littered the field, both soldier and nomad, though the dead nomads were by far the majority. 

As her attention faltered, Daka swung with her sword and Elizaveta barely managed to parry, though the flat of the blade pressed along her forearm, branding the daemon flesh as it fell away. Elizaveta let out a strangled cry, more eagle than human and jumped into the air. 

The soldiers were relentless. The entire clan would die if she didn’t do something, so she shot up and let loose a cry that pierced the very fabric of the air. Below Daka clutched her ears at the sound as the winds whipped up and a thunder of hooves broke out from the distant plains. The soldier’s horses reared as eerie whinnies flew on the wind. Across the horizon sprinted a herd of smoky, black shapes. As they approached both soldier and nomad could make our the enormous equine Daemon’s as they ran toward their mistress’ summons. 

* * *

 

Alfred stumbled into a place that looked just as he’d pictured it. The thick groves of the mountain forest thinned as the reached the yellow-green plains. A creek flowed to his left, bubbling happily as the mountain runoff swelled its waters. He broke into a run and leapt into the sky once he was clear of the trees. He could here the sounds of fighting and made for them. 

Staying high enough in the air to be overlooked, he shot towards the battle, though he took the time to marvel at the clear, open sky with it’s pleasant thermals and playful breezes. He halted above the body-strewn plain, shoving his fist to his mouth to stop from retching. Despite the fury with which the nomads fought, it was a massacre. The smoking coals from their cooking fires still smoldered, and pots and pans and tents all lay strewn about. Bodies littered the ground, men, women, children, all must have risen to the fight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure shoot past him, and settle in the air above him. She let our a terrible, inhuman wail that he had learned to associate with daemons. When the cry faded into the thin air, he saw a cloud rise through the haze as a mass of low daemons galloped forth onto the field to the aid of their mistress. 

Alfred tore his eyes from the advancing herd and found Daka, flinching against the sound of the high daemon’s cry. He flew down and sound a patch of shrubs where the oncoming daemons wouldn’t notice him. He was about to call out to Daka when Elizaveta swooped down, striking the goddess feet first. Daka cried out in fury and whipped her sword around. Elizaveta, still carried by her downward momentum, couldn’t dodge and was too slow to parry. The sword struck her sharply across the back, sizzling as it encountered her flesh and sliced, leaving a weeping wound in its wake. 

From his place behind the shrubs, Alfred saw the daemon fall and Daka raise up triumphant. She was shouting, no doubt playing with her prey before she went in for another blow. Alfred was horrified, but he had made a promise to Gilbert, one he thought Francis supported as well, to bring back Daka from her slaughter, and Alfred would keep that promise and try to spare as many lives as were left. He was about to race forth when a hand on his shoulder stopped him and only a well-placed hand over his mouth halted the yelp that threatened to burst out of him. 

“You fool!” said a voice in a frantic whisper. “What do you think you’re doing? Why are you even here?”

Alfred knew that voice, and it was confirmed when Arthur moved to crouch beside him. 

“Daka,” he whispered. “I need to get her back to Caelei. As soon as possible, before those soldiers murder the entire clan.”

Arthur laughed humorlessly. “Not enjoying the bloodfest?” Alfred made a disgusted snort. “I thought not, weak stomach that you have. There’s nothing you can do for them at this point.”

“There has to be something. I can’t just sit here and—“

“Yes, you can and you will.” Arthur said. “That cry that Elizaveta sent up? It wasn’t just for her lower daemons. It reached all the high daemons. Others with be here soon enough. They’ll take care of the soldiers. It wouldn’t do for you to die in some hopeless charge.”

Alfred swept the hair from his eyes and pushed up his glasses. This was Arthur, who had been so distant with him lately, and he seemed concerned for Alfred’s safety. However Alfred didn’t have time to ponder what it meant. He had a promise to fulfill. 

“I need to get Daka back to Caelei.”

Arthur was silent, glaring at the gloating goddess. He didn’t have time to waste.

“Fine, I’m not sure if we could kill a goddess anyway. I’ll attack her, the other daemons can deal with the soldiers,” he said, glancing up to where the equine Daemons were pushing back Daka’s soldiers. “I’ll injure her the best I can, then you swoop in and grab her. Get out as fast as possible.”

Alfred nodded and Arthur darted out of the brush. Brandishing a spear Alfred hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. With silent speed he threw himself at Daka, stone spear head clanging against her scarlet armor. Daka tumbled forward, caught off guard by the sudden blow. She slashed at Arthur but he ducked and flew at her again. 

Alfred watched on with awe and fear, mildly startled that the concern was for Arthur. He moved with none of Elizaveta’s elegant grace, but with abrupt, patternless thrusts and attacks. Daka, worn from her fight with Elizaveta, attacked with chaotic, thrashing swipes of her sword, which Arthur either dodged or caught in the thick wood of the spear shaft. He struck her over and over again, precise and explosive. His attacks did not seek to unnerve or unbalance her, just to hit the same place on her armor over and over until it finally broke. With the screeching of ripping metal, Arthur’s jab finally found flesh. Daka cried out, this time in pain, and collapsed, blood soaking the wild grass. 

Arthur nodded toward the brush and Alfred burst out and collected the fallen goddess in his arms before flying off. After a final look of understanding between human and daemon, Alfred whirled away. 

Once free of the battlefield, he spun the pendant as Gilbert instructed and called Arlya’s name. The moon goddess appeared before him and placed her palm on his shoulder. With a final gust of wind, they were gone. 

* * *

 

Gilbert, Francis, and Pakram greeted them at the gates of Caelei. The sun god remained behind as the others took Daka to her rooms. Alfred stood, pale and exhausted and sick before the god and recounted most of what he had seen, leaving out his interactions with Arthur. 

“So it seems we have been thrust into this war before we could fully prepare,” the god said with his usual stoicism. “So be it. Arlya, get him to bed.”

The goddess tightened her grip but Alfred shrugged out of it. “I can get there myself,” he said. And flew slowly to his room. He collapsed on the bed. His last thought before he fell asleep was a vague hope that Arthur was alright. 


	9. Aftermath

Alfred squirmed under the intense gaze of the sun god. He had been sitting in one place for several hours, explaining what had occurred on the plains to Pakram and Arlya over and over. For long stretches he was left just to sit there, while the two gods whispered behind their hands then asked him to explain or describe something in more detail.

The polished marble of the floor would probably have a dull streak on it by the end of the day, Alfred thought vaguely as he scuffed his boot along the same track of stone. The chair he was supplied with was cold and uncomfortable, but he wasn't allowed to leave until Pakram was satisfied with his story.

He was addressed again: "And you said Daka's attacker came from behind you, through the undergrowth?"

"Yes, sir. I was in the brush so neither Daka nor the Daemons could see me and I could get her when I had a chance. The attacker came from the same place. But couldn't really see, it moved so fast," Alfred lied. He knew exactly who had come to Elizaveta's aid. But the gods didn't have to know about his conversation with Arthur or how Alfred had agreed to let Arthur wound her.

"I see," said Pakram. "You surely saw the manner of the attack, however, as you were watching rather close." Alfred stayed silent. "Describe it. In detail."

Alfred hesitated, then, mind traitorously blank, he settle on the truth. "Fast. Not sweeping or graceful, but explosive. Precise, too."

"Daggers or spear?"

"A spear, I think."

Pakram and Arlya exchanged a concerned look. "Arthur," Arlya said. "So he has joined the war." She flicked her eyes to Alfred, worry shining in them. He shifted under her gaze, back protesting from sitting for too long on the hard stone chair. "This is grave news indeed. I had hoped he would keep his distance until we could easily overpower him."

Pakram nodded in agreement. "Of all the Daemons, he's one of the most dangerous."

Alfred glanced up, confused. "Why? He's less scary than Ivan or Natalia. I'd rather fight him than them."

"All Daemons, much like gods, are different," Arlya explained. "Ivan and Natalia are fearsome because or their brute strength and sheer skill, respectively. Arthur is clever, cunning. He fights tactically and not always by the rules."

Alfred waited for more, but the two gods were silent, staring off into nothing while they pondered their thoughts. Hoping they were finished with him, he cleared his throat and stood.

"May I leave?"

"Yes, Alfred, I have no further need for you," said Pakram.

Alfred stepped out of the marble court and into the late afternoon. He pushed off into the air and made for home. The air in Caelei seemed so flat after his time in the mortal realm, he thought as he flew. It was remarkably still, doing nothing until caught by some living movement. There were no currents or thermals or gusts to aid or hinder him. It would be a relief to be in the mortal realm again tonight.

He touched down on the stairs leading to his room. He was making his way up when a figure appeared before him. It was Gilbert, looking tired and ragged. His eyes were bloodshot and he seemed to sag, as if gravity had begun to pull him harder. Alfred looked up.

"Thank you," Gilbert said, sounding exhausted. "You brought her back."

"I couldn't stop her from getting hurt."

"I know. But she'll recover."

"I'm sorry I couldn't—"

Gilbert held up his hand, silencing Alfred. "No. You did pretty well," he said, a smile almost cracking his weariness. "In fact, you might have been brave. Even with a whole army standing behind you, Daemons aren't to be taken lightly. I would have faced Elizaveta myself, or course, if not for direct orders against it."

"That didn't seem to stop Daka," Alfred muttered.

Gilbert let out a dark chuckle. "No, it didn't. Never has. But Daka is her own authority."

The silence hung between them. Alfred shifted awkwardly, when Gilbert made no sign of speaking, he said, "I have to see him tonight. Arthur, that is."

Gilbert nodded, looking past Alfred. "Why are you telling me? I don't care."

"He's the one who hurt her."

"Is he? I'll have to repay him when we meet in battle."

Something seemed off about the god. His usual smirk was gone, and he lacked the condescension he often showed Alfred, though the latter had slightly subsided since Alfred had come into his role as messenger.

"Gilbert—" Alfred began, only for the god to vanish with a faint swish. With a sigh, he turned up the stairs and entered his room. He hadn't bothered to straighten his blankets this morning when Arlya had come in early to question him. He frowned and left them as they were, picking up his lyre and satchel. He was about to leave when someone coughed behind him. Turning, he saw Arlya herself standing stiffly in the doorway.

"You're still going to see that Daemon tonight?" she asked.

Alfred repressed a sigh. Some iteration of this conversation happened every time he left.

"Yes, I'm playing for Arthur tonight."

"Even after what he did to Daka? If he could have, he would have murdered her."

Alfred ignored that last bit. "Yes, Arlya, I'm going. I have to. And I don't really mind," he said and instantly regretted it. Arlya's eyes narrowed. She swept across the room and grasped Alfred by the shoulders and squeezed.

"You won't go for much longer. First chance I have, I will kill him. He won't have any power over you then. You shouldn't go tonight either," she added, a bit frantic. "Perhaps when you get there you can play half a song, then call me. Your oath will not be broken then."

Alfred struggled out of her clutching grip. "Arlya, I'm going. Now." Before she could lay hand on him again, he was out the door and into the air.

The goddess stood in empty room. She sunk onto the bed. "My boy, my boy. What is happening to my baby boy?" she wondered. After a moment she looked up, a small smile on her face. "Oh course," she said. "He's protecting me. He doesn't really want to go. Just putting on a brave face so I won't worry. My wonderful baby boy."

She stood, chuckling to herself as she straightened the blankets on Alfred's bed. With a final pat, as if the boy was in them, she turned to leave.

* * *

 

Gilbert appeared in a garden and glared at the flowers as he waited for his presence to be acknowledged. After a few moments, Francis sauntered forth between rows of rose bushes. He smirked when he saw Gilbert.

"Ah, my friend. I've been expecting you. Pull over the table and chairs, I'll fetch us some drinks."

Gilbert stayed silent but did as he was told. He sat down at the glass garden table and leaned on his elbows as he awaited Francis and his never-ending supply of alcohol.

Francis returned and poured Gilbert a straight shot but mixed his own drink. As he swirled it, he said, "So, you are worried about Daka, no? I wouldn't worry too much, she'll recover, even if it's not fast enough for your liking."

Gilbert downed the shot and slacked his glass against the table. "I'm not worried."

Francis raised his eyebrows; Gilbert was trying to sound unconcerned and failing to Francis' trained ear. "You say that, Gil, but you don't mean it."

"You need to give me much more to drink before you can expect a conversation about feelings, Francis."

With a chuckle, Francis complied, filling his glass. Gilbert knocked it back. "Sometimes I wish I were human. It takes way too much of this stuff to do anything to me."

"So it does."

Gilbert glared at Francis, who swirled his glass but had not touched its contents. "What are you thinking about. You're supposed to be helping me with my problems, O god of love."

Francis frowned, choosing his words carefully. "I am almost… relived that Daka is incapacitated for the time being. Her armies won't move without her direct orders."

Gilbert stood, slamming his glass onto the table. It shattered. "You dare say something so treacherous?" he shouted. "You have reason to hate them more than of any of us. Are you going soft?"

"If soft is weary of this conflict, then yes. I suppose so. What has it been, Gil, an age?"

"An age since they robbed you of your most precious gift."

Francis flinched but carried on. "Even so. All this destruction will not bring my music back. Besides, let us not pretend that I was the sole cause of this war. The theft of my music was an excuse."

Gilbert turned his back, disgusted and spat on the ground. "You were never much of a fighter. Throw some blood at you and you'll run back here to your little garden and hide."

"I don't think you understand, Gilbert," Francis hissed. "Daka murdered an entire clan of people yesterday. A people you respect and care for— don't deny it, you admire them. Their freedom and the bonds they share with their animals, your animals." Gilbert pushed away from the table, retreating from Francis' words.

"And she killed them," Francis continued, rising to follow. "Murdered them in cold blood, all because they have the favor of a Daemon."

"Some friend you are," Gilbert said, whipping around, his voice oddly high. "Declaring things you know nothing about. I don't know why I even came here." And with a final glare, he vanished.

Francis pushed in their chairs and picked up their glasses. "I hope you'll see soon, my friend," he said to where Gilbert had been sitting.

* * *

Alfred touched down on the peak of a hill, relieved to be away from Caelei for awhile. The wind was damp and just barely warm, and high, stone-grey clouds blocked the sky as far as the eye could see.

The green rolling hills were dotted with purple and brown as heather and gorse grew wild in the relative warmth of early summer. Alfred stared out as he stretched trying to loosen his muscles stiff from sitting.

"You're a bit early today," said a voice from behind him.

He startled and turned to see Arthur, who had arrived silently. The Daemon came up beside him to look out over the hills. Alfred caught some emotion in his eyes, though it was guarded and indecipherable. After a moment, he blinked out of his thoughts and turned to lead Alfred a little ways to were he had collected some firewood. After setting up the skeleton of the fire, he motioned for Alfred to begin.

Alfred sighed. It seemed that yesterday hadn't made Arthur any less reserved with him. The Daemon sat across the hilltop looking off into the distance as Alfred played, saying nothing. When night fell, he began to make the fire in the same silence.

Shifting, Alfred tried to find a more comfortable position, but he was restless and the damp air was chilling him. He stopped playing. Arthur looked up, frowning.

"Why did you stop?" he asked.

"Do you think I could do something else for a little while? I need to move."

Arthur frowned but nodded. "I suppose. We could walk, if you'd like."

Alfred stood, shaking out his arms and fingers. He offered a hand to Arthur, who ignored it and stood on his own. Arthur lead the way down the hillside and Alfred followed beside him. When Arthur made no sign of speaking, Alfred decided to.

"Daka won't be able to go anywhere for awhile."

Arthur snorted. Alfred continued.

"They— the gods— know it was you."

Arthur did not break his stride. "Did you tell them?"

"Not directly. I said I didn't see who you were, but then they asked me to describe how you fought."

"I do have a rather distinctive style," Arthur said with a small smirk. "But why did you lie before that? Why didn't you say it was me?"

"Arlya's already against me coming here. I thought if she knew it was you who did that to a goddess, she would actually stop me from seeing you."

"Yet you were honest about my fighting style." asked Arthur, bemused.

"I was under pressure," Alfred said defensively. "And I didn't know they'd get it that fast. And just for the record, Arlya was very close to chaining me up and not letting me come."

Arthur chuckled as he found a path that meandered between the hills; they walked side-by-side, Alfred squinting at the path in the dark, for the only light came from the moon that just barely shone through the clouds. Arthur was quiet for awhile before speaking again.

"You wanted to come to see me?" he asked, trying to keep his tone level.

Alfred was oblivious to the weight of the question. "Sure. I like it here. It's so alive, and it's nice to be away from the gods for awhile."

"Oh." Arthur couldn't quite mask his disappointment.

"Um… Were you expecting a different answer?"

"I wasn't expecting any particular answer," said Arthur irritably and looked up at the sky. It was hard for Alfred to tell, but Arthur's face appeared a bit flushed in the pale half-light.

Suddenly, clear sky dotted with stars broke through the clouds. Arthur examined them awhile before stopping.

"It's getting late," he said, "The Rabbit has already risen and the Sparrow is starting to peak over the horizon."

Alfred stopped and stared at Arthur as if he had spoken some other language. "What?"

Arthur pointed up to the sky. Alfred's eyes widened at the sight. There were a few stars in Caelei, but none so bright and not nearly as many. As the last of the clouds dissipated, stars shone like crystal scattered across the night.

"It's so beautiful," he whispered.

Arthur looked at him, confused. "I suppose it is rather magnificent."

"I've never seen anything like it."

"You've never seen anything like the night sky?"

"This is normal?" Alfred asked, amazed.

"Er, yes. Well, normal for a clear night. Come on, back to the fire now, it's getting late."

Arthur had to pull Alfred along, as he wouldn't stop staring up at the heavens. When they returned, all Alfred wanted to do was look.

"What did you mean back there? Rabbit? Sparrow? What are those?" Alfred asked as Arthur got the fire going. Once it was crackling away, Arthur sat down beside Alfred and pointed to a bright cluster of stars high over the horizon. The three brightest made a "V" while two others came down in an angled line.

"They're constellations, star pictures if you will. See those five bright stars? They make up Laurel, the Rabbit."

Alfred squinted long and hard to where Arthur was pointing. "I don't see a rabbit anywhere," he said finally.

"You have to use your imagination. The three in the V-shape make the ears while the other two mark the body. See, she's sitting up."

"That's not a rabbit. It looks like some bent stick or something."

"A bent stick?" Arthur repeated. "That's no way to describe a heroic lady."

"So now the stick rabbit is heroic? I don't get it."

Arthur sighed and looked up at the sky. "No, you idiot. Laurel was once a woman. A beautiful woman from the plains, with long hair the color of the sun and large, black eyes that were pools to look into," Arthur began and Alfred was instantly captured by the soft, well-practiced words that rolled off his tongue.

"One day, a soldier from the city of Aenea came down and found Laurel amongst the wild grasses with her horses. Immediately he desired her for her beauty and gentle nature. But she spurned his advances, preferring to stay in plains as a free woman.

"One night, the soldier and his friends were out drinking, and the soldier began to tell of the Beauty of the plains, whom he wanted for his wife. Drunk beyond reason, they decided to ride to the camp of the plains dwellers and seize Laurel for the soldier. When they arrived, the soldier demanded Laurel accompany him back to Aenea, but once again she refused.

"Furious, the solder and his friends threatened to get violent, and seized Laurel's younger sister and held her at spear point. Finally, to spare her sister, Laurel agreed to go with them. They rode for many days before finally arriving back in Aenea. Within the city walls, Laurel turned pale and sickly, for there were no great howling winds and the sunlight was pale and dim from within the town houses. However, she retained an austere beauty and thus, the desire of the soldier. Finally one night, she could take the confines of the city no more. She ran out onto the high walls, intending to throw herself off, for she could not leave without the soldier following her and bringing her back. In the moment of her despair, a ghostly light shone before her and from it appeared the High Daemon of the plains, patron to her people.

"'My fair daughter, do not weep, for I come to aid you,' the Daemon said with a sweet, soothing voice. 'But how can you help me?' Laurel asked. 'Even if I return home, there is nothing to stop the soldier from taking me again.'"

Arthur glanced at Alfred, who watched him with undivided attention, eyes wide. Satisfied, he continued. "Shouts echoed behind them from the sleeping city as the soldier realized his prize was gone. Men were running up the city battlements, shouting as the recognized Laurel. She turned back to the Daemon, eyes glimmering with the faintest hope. The Daemon reached out her hand and took the woman into her bright light. A moment later, they were on the open plains, but the Daemon held not a woman in her arms, but a tawny rabbit with huge black eyes. The Daemon placed her on the ground and stroked her ears. 'Now go, daughter, they cannot find you now.'

"The rabbit blinked and ran off, towards home, the threat of confinement gone forever," Arthur concluded. He looked to Alfred, who was oddly silent. Suddenly self-conscious, he fidgeted as he waited for a response.

"So that's where rabbits come from?" Alfred asked finally.

Arthur scoffed. "Of course not. No god or Daemon has that kind of power to transform someone. It's a human story, and one that I quite fancy. Passed down by the nomads of the plains, obviously."

Alfred lapsed into thoughtful silence and looked up at the sky. A few wisps of cloud floated across it, warning of more grey skies to come. "So do all the stars have stories?" he asked.

"Good heavens, no. There are too many. Constellations usually do, but those are only the few stars that are useful for navigating or telling the time."

"And you know them?"

"I know many of them."

"Will you tell me?"

"No. That wasn't part of the deal," Arthur said sharply. "You play for me. That is what I get for sparing you."

Alfred deflated, disappointed. He picked a particularly mournful tune of his lyre. Arthur gave a put-upon sigh.

"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes. "I suppose I could share a few. But you still come here first and foremost to play for me. Remember that. I reserve the right to—"

He was interrupted as Alfred grabbed his shoulders and awkwardly hugged him. With a yelp he tried to wriggle away, but Alfred's hold was stronger than he expected.

"Thank you," Alfred said, privately celebrating that his guilt trip had worked. "I want to know everything about the sky. The stars, how to read them and see rabbits out of bent sticks. Maybe I'll see them up close some day!"

"Alright. Fine. Whatever- but would you kindly get off me!" Arthur shouted, having given up trying to extract himself from Alfred. "I'll tell you about them, but some other time. You have a lot of music to make up tonight already. Now play."

Still grinning, Alfred let his arms drop and began to play. Arthur leaned back on the grass, contentment spreading through him as he lay, gazing up at the stars. Alfred looked over and smiled to himself. Arthur's reservations seemed to have vanished, at least for the time being, and Alfred found that he was happy for it. Eventually, after insisting that he was just resting his eyes for a moment, he fell asleep. Once be began to snore softly, Arthur rose to his feet and stood a moment on the flickering firelight before moving to smother the flames with the loose, moist soil. With a final glance at the gathering clouds in the sky and a small, fond smile, he vanished, leaving Alfred alone on the hillside.

* * *

Alfred was woken by gentle fingers threading through his hair and looked up, blinking in the bright though overcast morning, into Arlya's face. She was frowning and pondering the landscape, as if it had personally wronged her. Alfred shifted into a sitting position, yawning.

"Morning."

"Good morning, Alfred."

"You found me quickly," he said. Arlya shrugged then changed the subject.

"You spent the night on the cold hard ground. Again. Why didn't you call for me?"

"Fell asleep without meaning to."

She sighed. "The least that Daemon could do would be to give you something soft to sleep on."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Arlya, I'm fine. I can sleep on the ground or with no blanket without dying."

"But you get cold so easily."

"Can we just go?" Alfred asked. It was too early for this discussion.

"Yes, let us. You can get cleaned up then," she said. Alfred took her arm with a final roll of his eyes and vanished from the human realm.

 


	10. Murder in the Woods

Alfred flashed between the tops of the trees, desperately trying to remember what he was running from. The forest swam in and out of view as black dots swam in his eyes and a he cradled his left arm  uselessly against his chest because of a deep, oozing slash running from the back of his shoulder down the length of his side, staining the white of his tunic scarlet. 

There was fighting in the woods ahead of him. He halted trying to figure out if he should go towards it or away, but for some reason his head wouldn’t think properly. He lowered himself onto a tree branch and, bracing against the sturdy trunk, tried to remember when the day had gone so horribly wrong. 

* * *

 

The day started out normally enough, the sun woke Alfred too early for his liking and he dragged himself out to meet Gilbert for combat practice. Arlya still forbade him anything more than two hunting daggers, but with practice, Alfred was becoming rather skilled with them--Gilbert was an effective teacher and now much more friendly after Daka’s return. The goddess was still bedridden, and would be so for at least another week, and she wouldn’t be at her full strength for a long time. However, even drained and injured, her skill would make her formidable in the Daemon War. 

Gilbert and Alfred were sitting in the shade of the mountain hollow where they practiced when Pakram appeared, flanked by Francis and the grey, stern god of the household, Vahnic. The sun god was clad in bright plate armor with a gleaming broadsword at his belt. He also seemed to shine with an inner light as his power waxed with the lengthening days. Vahnic was similarly clad, though his armor was a more utilitarian grey-silver, a match to his his rough, lined face. Francis was as ostentatious as ever: a bright blue cape hung over his glittering mail, and one hand was one his gold-hilted sword, which upon examination was closer to a foil than the heavy swords the other gods carried. 

“The time has come for _organized_ offensive measures,” said Pakram while Gilbert and Alfred rose to their feet. “Today we mean to eliminate one of the high daemons and claim the first victory of the war. Our power grows, and now is the time to end this series of stalemates.”

“Who are we going after?” asked Gilbert. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go after the stronger daemons quite yet. At least, not until Daka can fight with us.”

“Agreed, Gilbert,” said Pakram, beginning to pace. “Though there are merits to going after Ivan or Arthur and eliminating them. If we attack without a plan, they’ll just flee.”

Vahnic muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “cowards” and earned a glare from Pakram. 

“It is not cowardice on their part but merely survival instinct, though it is frustrating to us,” Pakram reasoned. “No, I think our best chance is to ambush the most powerful when they come to the aid of another. However, today we desire a clear victory, as much a symbolic victory as anything else. I’ve heard stories that the high daemon of the southern forests is weak from a cruel winter and a dry spring.”

Gilbert stood and flicked out his hunting daggers, flipping them with practiced hands, as if imagining burying them in a Daemon’s soft throat. “Katerina?” he asked. “She’s always been weak, though she _is_ close with Ivan and Natalia, so I suppose her death could help undermine them emotionally. Though even weakened, High Daemons are hard to kill. How are we supposed to stop her from calling for help?”

“We’ll have to deal with that as if comes. But she’s our best choice for a relatively easy victory.” The sun god turned to Alfred, who had sat, listening to the conversation with a mixture of exhilaration but mostly queasiness. “We could use your skills, Alfred. Do you wish to accompany us?”

Alfred jerked slightly upon address. His initial gut reaction was a firm “no,” as no matter how they phrased or justified it, they were planning murder. It rubbed Alfred the wrong way. He cleared his throat and said in an unsteady voice, “I don’t know. This daemon, Katerina, hasn’t really done anything, has she?”

His statement caused all four gods to stare at him, bafflement in all their eyes, whether because of his statement or that he had voiced dissent it was hard to tell. Alfred looked as his feet and shuffled until Vahnic’s nervous laugh broke the silence. 

“Come on, stupid boy; sure, she hasn’t done anything, but that doesn’t mean she won’t. We need that forest for land and timber, and her death will be a blow against her kin, which is more important than whether or not she herself is an actual threat.”

Alfred wasn’t convinced and looked to Francis for help, but the god was staring straight in front of him, expression indiscernible. A different hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up at Gilbert, who was smiling down at him. 

“Come on Alfred,” he said. “This will be our first real victory. You want to be a part of it, don’t you?  Just think: Alfred, the warrior of the gods, respected and loved. Don’t you want to be a hero?” Alfred found himself nodding. If he could be a hero now, he could finally prove himself worthy to live among the gods. 

“You’re right, Gilbert. I’ll come,” he said, though his voice was still soft and unsure. Vahnic snorted. Alfred bristled at the dismissive gesture and swore he’d prove to the haughty god that he could be a hero of the Daemon War, and that he belonged here. 

His mind made up, he tried to force a confident grin and a nod, though it came out as more of a twitch. Alfred walked to Pakram, who would take him to their destination. He completely missed the furious and betrayed glare Francis sent Gilbert. 

* * *

 

Alfred landed with a small crunch of fallen leaves. He looked around the sun dappled forest. It was different than the other forest he’d been in, around Aenea. Rather than made up of dark, shadowy evergreens, this forest was thick with great oak and birch trees, their long-stemmed leaves rustling in the summer breeze and dull green moss hanging off their branches like shawls. The ground between the trees was thick with shrubby undergrowth, filling the air with their heavy, hazy scent. 

The five landed, taking in the scenery. There was no sign of the daemon. Only a hush that seemed to weigh across their shoulders, making movement sluggish and clumsy. 

“She should be nearby,” Pakram said, looking through the trees. “Split up, and send up a signal if you find her. A whistle should do, nothing to startle her. But make it loud.” 

The four gods split off through the trees leaving Alfred in the clearing. Not knowing what else to do, he took to the air and headed east, keeping an eye out for the daemon in the forest below. The sun rose to its zenith and bore down down on him, until the heat was too much and he sought some relief down by a little stream that ran through two great granite boulders. As he splashed his face, he heard a muffled voice approaching from the other side of the spring. Panicking, he stumbled backwards into the undergrowth and hid, waiting to see who it was. 

A woman came into view, tall and wearing greyish-blue skirt beneath a white tunic. She swung a basket at her side, filled to the brim with food. Her light hair was cropped short and was pulled back by a leather band. She could have been described as plain except for her feet, which were graceful canine paws the bushy, brownish-grey tail that swept behind her. Alfred watched in slight fascination as she wandered past him, chanting some rhyme to herself. 

Alfred knew he should send up the whistle, as here was the high daemon right in front of him, but curiosity got the better of him. He watched her take a large, sleek fish and knife made of bone out of her basket. She cleaned the fish with practiced hands and placed it in a clay pot she extracted from the basket before starting on the vegetables she had brought. Once finished, She walked to the river and rinsed her hands off. It was then Alfred caught a glimpse of something on her arms. Craning to get a better view, he spotted a rash of dark blisters running over her hands and up her arms, as if she had been burned. 

Whatever it was, if obviously pained her, Alfred noticed as he watched how gingerly she moved, careful not to rub anything too roughly against her skin. As he sat, hidden, it dawned on him that this was the target, the one they were here to get rid of. Murder, Alfred corrected himself, growing nauseous. They were here to murder her.

He wet his lips, trying to muster up the will to summon the others, be a hero like Gilbert had said. But he couldn’t do it. He was couched, rooted between the bushes, staring at his victim. Eventually, he began to back away, leaving the daemon behind, but froze when he heard a commotion from the woods that didn’t come from him. The Daemon heard it too. 

“Ivan?” she called. “Natalia? Is that you? You’re both a little early, but you can help me with the _yushka_.” When there was no response, she stood and took a step towards the noise. “Ivan?”

A dull grey blur shot out of the trees and knocked the daemon down. She let out a faint cry as she hit the ground and rolled. A large boot pinned one of her injured wrists to the ground and the other was trapped beneath her. Vahnic stood above her and drew his sword, tilting her head up with its point. Her flesh hissed at the contact. 

“Hello Katerina,” he said, pleasantly, leaning down over her. “It’s been awhile since we’ve spoken.”

Alfred could hear nothing but her heavy panting. He wanted to help her, but couldn’t figure out how. The god spoke again. 

“I see you’ve been dealing with the forest fires. I thought even something like you would have sense enough to keep yourself from burning. I guess you’re just stupid. The world won’t miss you much.”

Alfred scooted back, and a branch snapped beneath him. Vahnic spun and without lifting his weight off Katerina’s wrist. “Show yourself!” he shouted. 

Alfred edged out of the brush, not meeting Vahnic’s eyes. “Useless,” he muttered and Alfred stiffened and raised his head. He wasn’t useless. He opened his mouth to retort when a new voice rang through the clearing. 

“Katya?” it called. “Katerina, Natalia and I have arrived. We brought lots of good food with us.” A massive figure broke through the trees into the clearing. It was Ivan, standing at his impressive height, though with a sincere, small smile half hidden in his thick, cream-colored coat. He held his own basket in both arms, like a child. Natalia appeared at his side, her face impassive, but lacking the coldness it held during battle. 

Ivan froze at the sight and his smile dipped into a confused frown. He dropped the basket, its contents spilling out at his feet as he realized what was happening. 

Taken by surprise, Vahnic swung his sword to face Ivan. But as his weight shifted, Katerina twisted her free hand under her, grabbing the bone knife she had used to clean the fish and plunging it into Vahnic’s ankle. With a cry, he fell back. Ivan threw himself at the god, only to be driven off by the flashing of steal. 

Vahnic had an advantage, as he was armed to fight, but he was outnumbered. He’d need the other gods to help if he wanted to complete the goal. “Alfred!” he shouted back to the petrified messenger, “Get the others! Get up, dammit, and whistle for them, you useless boy!”

Alfred was shocked into action by the words. He made a dash past the god towards the boulders lining the stream so he could push off. As he took his first leap towards them, a force slammed into him from behind, sending him head first onto the boulder. His vision blacked out and for a moment, he flailed, panicking in the darkness. He tumbled into the stream and felt something rip into him from the shoulder, severing the tendons, all the way down his side, stopping just above his hip. He gasped, inhaling more water than air. Hacking and thrashing, he threw himself away from the pain and into the air. 

The sodden wings on his boots took action and lifted Alfred up. Panting and coughing, he curled into a ball in midair, cradling his useless arm the best he could while trying to fight down the searing pain that threatened to overwhelm him. Some vague thought reminded him that he needed to find the other gods to help Vahnic. He let out a shaky, but piercing whistle and flew off in search for them. 

He flew through the tree tops, though finding the gods ebbed from his mind as much as he tried to hold onto the thought. He began to move on instinct, trying to outrun the pain, though it only worsened as he strained himself. Trying to let his mind clear, he lowered himself onto a branch, but the fog in his head wouldn’t go away. He curled into himself and started to doze. Awhile later, he awoke, horribly disoriented and confused, and memories of the past hours a jumbled blur. He needed to find help, he realized, and there was a commotion in the distant forest. Maybe someone could help him there. He took to the sky again, struggling to keep balanced, and returned the way he had come. 

As he approached the noise, he slowed and stopped, shaking his head. A battle was raging below him, and though he couldn’t follow what was happening, he felt cold dread pool in his gut as he looked on. 

Though outnumbered and with no proper weapons, the daemons were holding their own. They moved with such an ease over the land, as if it were a part of them, that the gods simply could not keep up; however, he noticed Katerina had become sluggish and her movements pained. She held only the bone knife in her trembling hands, but she faced the gods nonetheless. 

Of the gods, Francis was faring the worst. He was bleeding from a slash across his temple and had to keep wiping the blood from his eyes. Natalia seemed to have sense his weariness and focused her attacks on him. 

She was a flurry of movement, advancing on Francis with the one stone dagger she always kept with her. He lost ground, edging back towards the boulders the stream flowed through. Despite the advantage the metal of the sword gave him, the most he could manage was to keep her from landing a direct hit. Then his back hit the cold stone, and Natalia got under his guard and knocked the sword from his hand, not flinching as it brushed her bare arm. 

Alfred looked on from above as the sword clattered to the ground. Natalia struck with purpose and cold, hollow fury. Alfred didn’t know if she could actually kill a god, but she certainly could maim him, for a long time if not permanently. One thought broke his frantic, confused mind. Francis was about to be hurt; Francis who was his friend. He remembered Gilbert saying something about heroes earlier. He wanted to be a hero. 

As Natalia raised her dagger, Alfred dropped from the sky between her and Francis. Her strike was knocked off course and the dagger glanced across Alfred’s back. He screamed as the rough stone cut through the muscles on his lower back, dull waves of pain overwhelming him. He collapsed on the ground in front of Francis. Alfred writhed and gasped, Francis kneeling beside him. Neither saw the dagger rise up again, aimed for Alfred’s throat. But the daemon’s arm was caught and a new, cold voice spoke in her ear. 

“How dare you touch him, fiend,” growled Arlya, her white, braided hair glowing in the sunlight. Alfred stared up at her, bewildered. How did she—?

Natalia struggled and managed to free herself from Arlya’s grasp. She readjusted her grip on the dagger before leaping forward at the unarmed goddess. Arlya tried to dodge but Natalia spun at the last second and threw Arlya into the rocks. She landed with a heavy crunch and crack of her head as it snapped against the granite. 

Pakram roared, and, desperate to protect his wife,an from his duel with Ivan, Gilbert taking his place, towards Natalia. She had just ducked out of his path when Vahnic gave a triumphant shout. He had his sword pressed into Katerina’s neck. 

“Got you now.”

Ivan flung Gilbert to the side and raced at Vahnic. “Katya!” he shouted. “Don’t worry, Katya, I’ll get you free.” He had almost reached her when Natalia screeched as Francis crept up from behind and caught her. 

“Stop,” the god said, containing the thrashing daemon with his arm and sword. “Hurt anyone else and she dies.” 

Ivan froze, trying to find a way out. He looked between Katerina and Natalia, wanting to save them both. 

“Yes, that’s right. Attack one of us, the other dies.”

“Ivan,” Katerina said, “Get Natalia and leave.”

Ivan shook his head. “No!” he shouted. “I will not leave you here.”

“Ivan, you can escape. I am too weary to flee, I do not think I can manage it. But you must get away.”

Ivan’s eyes began to water. “No! Katya—“

Katerina tilted towards Natalia. 

“Natalia, vanish! You are strong yet.”

“If she vanishes, Katerina will be killed. You leave her to die.”

“Natalia, do it!” Katerina shouted. 

Natalia’s eyes glittered, unsure and frightened. 

“Please…”

Natalia vanished from Francis’ grasp, reappearing behind Ivan who stared at Katerina with horror. With the heel or her dagger, Natalia landed a well aimed blow on the back of his neck. He crumpled into a heap onto her rapidly changing body. With a final snarl she changed her form into that of a low daemons. She stood, a shadowy wolf-daemon, then leapt into the woods, Ivan on her back. 

Pakram glared at the retreating shape, fuming. He turned to Vahnic, who held still held Katerina. 

“We must keep our word then,” he whispered, and with a soft swish, lifted his sword and faced Katerina. He examined her, panting and bloody, Vahnic’s sword had branded her across the throat, but though her eyes watered, she did not weep. He raised the sword above his head, bringing with down over her head. Where it lodged in her skull. Vahnic released her, and she fell to the ground with a dull _thud_. Pakram jerked the sword from her body then turned from the body, laying on its back, eyes hollow but open, tears held in to the last. 

The sun god sheathed his bloody sword and found Arlya where she had fallen. She breathed too shallowly, and blood trickled through her hair and down her neck, staining her silver shift. He scooped her up and vanished, Vahnic and Gilbert following. 

Francis returned to Alfred’s side, fearing the worst. But he though he lay still, his eyes were open and his breath came in ragged gasps. Sighing with relief, Francis picked him up, a bit of a struggle as Alfred was almost as big as he was, and took him back to Caelei where he could be properly attended to. 


	11. Released

Alfred passed days in a dark haze between sleep and waking, only really aware of the pain that grew and faded in a seemingly endless cycle. Finally the haze began to clear, and Alfred awoke into full consciousness for the first time. He rolled over with a moan. 

“Alfred?” came a voice from beside his bed. Francis was sitting, a book in hand. He looked tired, a bit battered, and very relieved to see Alfred awake. 

“Francis? What day am I?” he asked, words horribly slurred. 

“… Pardon?”

“Day?”

“You have been unconscious for over a week, if that’s what you’re asking. Nine days to be precise.”

Alfred groaned. His tunic was gone but his entire chest was wrapped in white cloth bandages. The wounds on his back still hurt, but had faded to bearability. His head hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before, a dull, persistent pain that pulsed in time with his heart. 

Apparently, he mentioned the pain out loud. Francis offered him a cup of water and said, “I’m not surprised. You had one of the worst concussions I’ve seen. You and Arlya both. Natalia will pay for this.”

“Arlya?” Alfred asked. 

“She saved you. I don’t know how she knew to find you at that moment, but I’m glad she did.”

“Francis?”

“What is it?”

“Hungry. Really hungry.”

Francis rolled his eyes and stood to fetch something. “I’m glad to see you are getting back to yourself, Alfred, but when I return, I expect complete sentences.”

Alfred hummed in response and took in his surroundings. He was in his room, satchel and lyre at the foot of the bed where he had left them. He pulled his lyre close to him and strummed it. His fingers trembled, and he wondered if he’d be able to play for Arthur their next meeting. 

Next time. Alfred’s heart skipped a beat. How many days had he been unconscious? Francis had said nine days, so when would he have to go back?

A cold chill crept down his spine. The battle had been five days after his visit with Arthur. It had been two weeks, to the day. He needed to get there, now. He rolled out of the bed and grabbed his lyre. His head swam again as he stood. He pulled on his boots and flew to the gate of Caelei leaving the room empty for when Francis returned. 

The warmth of Caelei was instantly sapped from Alfred as he ran through the gate and onto the hilltop and into a heavy, cool rain. He could feel the muscles in his back twitch and protest to their sudden exercise, and the slash along his side had opened and was seeping through the bandages. Soon he was soaked and shivering as scarlet bled down the bandages and dripped onto the ground. 

The wind whipped around him, plastering his hair to his face as he sunk to his knees, one hand groping to try to keep pressure on his shoulder. His heart hammered. Arthur had to come, had to be expecting him. It had been two weeks, if he didn’t play today, he would die as the blood oath demanded. 

Panic raced through him as he hugged himself, convinced that Arthur would not come for him. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the voice from behind him. 

“You’re late. I was worried you wouldn’t show,” said Arthur playfully. “It’s rude to keep people waiting.”

He received no response. 

“Alfred?” He approached the kneeling human, who was mouthing something to himself and shaking uncontrollably. “Alfred! What’s wrong with you?”

Alfred jumped when he felt a warm pressure around him. He stared at Arthur, who was wrapping him in his cloak. 

“You came,” he whispered. 

Arthur looked truly frightened. “Of course I did. I’ve always come.”

“I didn’t want to die.”

Arthur was now soaked to the skin himself, but hardly cared. “You’re not dead. You’re not going to be dead, either.” He finished tying the cloak around Alfred’s shoulders "Hold on tight," he said, placing Alfred's hands on his shoulders. Alfred clutched at Arthur as the daemon changed under him. Arthur's form turned black and smokey, then expanded, lifting Alfred up off the ground. The giant shadow of a fox fled over the hills, running low and smooth. 

They came to a cliff that tapered back into the hillside, so the ground was dry and sheltered from the wind. Arthur guided Alfred to the back wall, eased him down, and changed back to his typical form. Alfred clung to the cloak, still shaking. Arthur would have to find some wood or something to warm him up. 

He took Alfred’s chin in his hand, tilting his head toward him. Once he had Alfred’s eyes he said, “I’m going to get something to warm us up, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t you dare move, understand me?” Alfred nodded. “Good,” Arthur said, standing. “Just sit still for awhile.” He vanished. 

Alfred sat alone under the cliffside in the gathering dark. Five minutes passed, then ten. Alfred fidgeted, worried he’d been forgotten. After half of an hour passed, he got to his feet in hopes he could find Arthur out in the rain, but before he could make it out from his shelter, he was startled by a shout and the sound of wood clattering to the ground. 

“What are you doing?” Arthur shouted, grabbing Alfred’s shoulders and herding him to the back to the cliff wall. “I told you to stay still, and you were about to go out into the rain again!”

“You didn’t come back.”

“Yes I did, you idiot; I’m right here,” he said as he picked up a basket beside the wood and took out a covered clay pot. “I admit it took a bit longer than I expected, but not much. Really, Alfred, what is the matter with you? I’ve never seen you like this.”

He set the pot down beside Alfred and began kindling the fire, which he got burning rather well despite the weather. Once the it was crackling, Arthur opened the lip of the pot, revealing a steaming, red stew. 

“Eat some of this. It’s hot and will warm you up,” he said, forcing a spoon towards Alfred, who turned his head away and shook his head. 

“Oh, come now, I didn’t make it, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s good.”

Alfred tried a bite and was rewarded with a bright, fruity flavor. Realizing how hungry he was, he took the spoon from Arthur and ate the stew himself. He watched Arthur warm himself by the fire, and felt its heat sink into him too, making him more lucid than he had for many days. 

“What is this?” he asked indicating the stew. “It’s really good.”

“It’s made from something called a ‘tomato,’ a fruit that grows in the south. It was made by an acquaintance from a nearby town. That was the reason I took a little longer than I expected to get back.”

“You have human acquaintances?”

“Of course I do. Most daemons do.”

Alfred stared into the fire as he finished. After a moment, he said, “I don’t suppose you have any more?”

Alfred was surprised when a small, relieved smile broke Arthur’s expression. “No, sorry, but you obviously feel better.”

“Much.”

“Then tell me what happened?” he asked, facing Alfred with his back to the flames. 

Alfred was surprised by the question, but, setting the empty pot aside, he recounted what he could remember of the fight in the forest. When he came to Katerina’s murder he stopped, feeling sick.

“And…” Arthur prompted, pale and wide eyed. 

“He killed her,” Alfred whispered, hugging himself. “She wasn’t even a threat, and she was already hurt.”

Arthur nodded. “Yes, the lower forests have been ravished by fire and the summer has only just begun. I can’t believe it,” he said. “Katerina, dead. They’ve done it. They finally killed one of us.” He trailed off, lost in thought for a moment. “But Katerina? Of all the daemons…”

“You knew her?”

“Of course, she's family. She never has been—was,” he corrected himself, “very strong, and I’ll admit I’ve liked others better than her, but she did not deserve to be slaughtered. Natalia and Ivan must be heartbroken. The three of them have always been close.”

Alfred nodded. He was shaking again. “I can’t believe he would do that,” he said. “I mean, I knew that’s what we were there to do, but I never actually _believed_ someone would die. Or maybe I thought she would deserve to die.” Tears leaked out of his eyes. “But she didn’t and I couldn’t stop it. I was involved! If I hadn’t been there, maybe—“

“Stop,” Arthur ordered, glaring at Alfred. “Do you really think that the gods wouldn’t have managed without you? You may be convenient, but you’re not that important to their cause.”

Alfred hesitated. “I’m not sure if I should be relieved or insulted.”

Arthur chuckled, stood, and joined Alfred against the cliff wall. “Sorry, that was supposed to reassure you. Not that it’s very reassuring to be helpless.” Alfred nodded, his eyes closing. 

They stayed in silence for a long time, listening to the rain that splashed just a little distance away. Suddenly, Alfred sat up with a jerk and pulled out his lyre. 

“I’ve got to play.”

“No, not tonight. You’re hurt. Just sleep.”

“No, I have to play,” Alfred insisted. “If I don’t the blood oath will kill—“

Arthur turned to Alfred and placed two fingers on his lips silencing him. He seemed to be fighting with himself. After a moment, he looked into Alfred’s eyes, and his own shining with conflict. 

“I…” he began, the halted, as if trying to dislodge something from his throat, “I release you from your oath, Alfred,” he said, voice trembling. 

“What?”

“I release you. You don’t have to play for me tonight, or any night hereafter,” said Arthur as he turned his back to Alfred. “I could have killed you tonight,” he said, almost to himself. “I won’t risk that again. Not for something like this.”

Alfred was silent for a moment, Arthur’s words sinking in. “Thank you,” he whispered. “That means a lot to me.”

“I suppose this will be our last meeting then, until the inevitable,” Arthur said and smiled sadly to himself. 

“What do you mean?”

“We’re on opposite sides of a war, Alfred; we’ll meet in battle.”

“But why is this the last meeting until then?” Alfred asked. Arthur turned back to face him, confused. 

“You’re released.”

“Yes.”

Arthur stared at Alfred, trying to understand what he was implying. 

“What—?”

“The gods don’t have to know that. Goodness, Arthur, just because I don’t _have_ to come doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“You mean you want to come?”

“Of course I do,” Alfred said, poking Arthur on the nose. “Can you imagine? After she gets better, Arlya won’t let me go _anywhere_. I’ll need you.” He sighed and sunk to the ground, letting his eyes slip shut. He didn’t look up to see Arthur stare down at him, wide-eyed and scarlet in the firelight. 

For a moment, Arthur thought Alfred had fallen asleep until he opened his eyes and looked up.

“Arthur?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Tell me another story. You promised.”

Arthur hid a fond smile in his fist. “That’s the real reason you’re coming back isn’t it?” he teased. “Greedy child.”

“I’m not a child,” Alfred whined. 

Reaching over, Arthur patted him on the head, sniggering. “Of course you’re not, dear.”

Alfred squirmed away from his touch. “Story,” he demanded. “Who’s the Sparrow? You mention it last time.”

“Mentioned _him_ ,” Arthur corrected, drawing his hand back. “It started a few hundred years before Laurel was said to have lived…” he began, launching into another legend of the nomads. 

After the Sparrow, Arthur told him of other constellations, though they couldn’t see them tonight. When Alfred seemed to have drifted off to sleep, Arthur stood and went to the fire. 

As he stoked it, turning the blacked logs so they reignited, Alfred spoke from behind him. 

“Don’t go tonight,” he whispered. Arthur stood, looking at the boy curled in his cloak. 

“I won’t,” he said. “Someone needs to stay and keep the fire burning. I wouldn’t want you to die of a chill. That would be unfortunate.”

“It would,” Alfred agreed. “I wouldn’t find out how that last story ended.”

“Go to sleep, Alfred.”

“Promise you won’t leave?”

“I promise.”

* * *

 

Alfred woke cold. Rain still poured beyond the cliff face. His heart plummeted, the fire was out, and which meant Arthur must be gone. He shifted, sitting up and Arthur’s cloak fell off him. Funny, Arthur always took his cloak with him. 

A soft snore caught Alfred’s attention. He turned behind him, wincing as his wounded back protested, and saw Arthur right there, leaning against the wall and fast asleep. 

He had never seen Arthur asleep before. His face was smooth, if a little smudged by ash from the fire. He was still damp, though even in the chilly morning, he showed no signs of being cold. He wore the frown that was so typical for him, though otherwise he was utterly relaxed. Alfred felt a bit like he was intruding, as he’s never seen Arthur so unguarded.

“You didn’t go,” he said, too quiet to disturb Arthur’s sleep. 

“Alfred?” A voice said, but it didn’t come from the sleeping Daemon, but from behind him. He froze as he recognized the voice, though it was different from usual. A bit slurred. 

He turned to face her. Arlya stood in the rain, eyes red and fever-bright, clutching Pakram’s sword. 


	12. The Summer Solstice

“I found you,” Arlya said, grinning to herself. “I’ll always find you, dearest.”

Alfred stood, wincing a bit as his stiff muscles woke up. He glanced at Arthur, who still slept, oblivious. He turned back to the goddess, whose eyes shone with an odd glazed look and Alfred could see the heavy scabbing on her temple where Natalia had thrown her into the granite. 

“Arlya,” he said, so not to wake Arthur, “Why are you here?”

She reached out a hand for Alfred to take. He stared and stayed between her and Arthur, who was beginning to stir. Arlya looked at him, hurt when he did not take her hand. “You vanished,” she said. “No one could find you, and I could. The daemon took you.”

“He didn’t take me.”

“May as well have,” she said, raising her husband’s sword and twirling it. Alfred looked at it, suddenly anxious. All of Arlya’s threats toward Arthur ran through his head. Something was off about her, and it made her all the more dangerous. 

“Arlya, please. Take me home. Take me home, now.”

The goddess ignored him, looking past at Arthur’s sleeping form. She grasped Alfred by the shoulder and made to push him to the side. Alfred held his ground. 

“Take me home.”

Arlya examined him. Despite the firmness of his voice, he stood before her, shivering in the morning air with his bandages dotted with dried blood. She pulled him into an embrace. 

“It’s time to end this, my sweet,” she whispered. 

Alfred gasped and pulled away. “No, just take me home.”

She tightened her grip on the sword and tried to step around Alfred, who blocked her. 

“Alfred, move.”

“No. Please, just—“

“I said move,” she hissed and shoved him to the side. He fell on his shoulder and his vision whited out for a moment. Rolling onto his back, he panted as he watched the goddess approach the sleeping Daemon. 

“Aryla!” he shouted, more as a warning to Arthur than any attempt to stop her. The Daemon’s eyes shot open and jerked his head up to face the goddess. He came face to face with tip of her sword and only just managed to twist out of its way as she lunged. 

Staying close to the ground, Arthur dodged around Arlya and searched for something he could use for a weapon. Arlya whirled after him, swinging her sword in great, uncoordinated swoops. He ducked under them easily enough, but the only weapon he could find were burnt out logs from his fire, which crumbled into ash as soon as he touched them. Undeterred, he circled Arlya, waiting for an opening. 

He waited for one of Arlya’s swings to go wild, and finally she over-swung. But as Arthur stepped back out of reach of the blade, he tripped over Alfred’s crumpled body. He fell into the remains of the fire, coughing as a cloud of ash rose around him. 

Arlya regained her balance and stood over the daemon, sword raised above him. She smiled calmly and tilted her head to where Alfred lay on the ground. “It’s over now, my baby. You’re safe now.” She received no response.

Arthur’s hand clenched on the fine powdered ash in his hand. As Arlya turned back to him, still gazing with those serene yet glazed eyes, Arthur hurled the ash into her face. She reeled, coughing and stumbled away from him. 

Arthur regained his feet and rammed Arlya as hard as he could against the cliffside. She screeched and clawed Arthur. He recoiled a step, hissing in annoyance. Alfred moaned behind him. 

Chancing a look behind him, Arthur turned to glare at Alfred, eyes burning with fury and hurt. But as Alfred pushed himself up and looked up at Arthur, the daemon’s anger fled as he took in the sight of Alfred: trembling and white-faced with fear and pain. 

“Arthur?” Alfred asked. Arthur opened his mouth to reply when Arlya lunged at him. He sidestepped and sent her sprawling to the ground. He looked down at her, with what looked like cold apathy. He turned from her and met Alfred’s eyes once more before vanishing into thin air. 

With a groan, Arlya forced herself to her feet. She glared around the clearing until she found Alfred, who was fighting the pain in his shoulder with everything he had. She knelt beside him and examined him, trying to reassure him. When he made no response, she place her hand on his side and took him to his room in Caelei. 

Francis was already there, pacing and when he saw them appear, he gave an irritated huff and vanished, reappearing a moment later with Heracles and Kiku. 

Heracles looked over Alfred and Arlya sleepily before stepping forward and taking Arlya but the arm. 

“I thought I told you not to move,” he said with a sigh and the two vanished. 

Kiku hurried to Alfred’s side as he lowered himself onto his bed. 

“Is there anything I can get you, Alfred? Something for the pain?” Kiku asked. 

“Yes, and some water, maybe?” he said, then shuddered as his stomach reeled. “Or a bucket.”

Francis sat beside Alfred as he tried to keep his stomach contents down. He raised a hand, as if to give Alfred as reassuring pat, but dropped it when he could find no safe place to touch. 

“Part of me believes you deserve this for running off last night,” he said. 

“I had to. I would have died if I hadn’t.”

“The melodramatics are unnecessary.”

“I’m not being melodramatic,” Alfred said, raising up his scarred palm. 

Francis huffed and waved the hand away. “I wish I could rid you of that burden. You could have died last night, I’m surprised you’re not in a worse condition, to be honest.”

Alfred looked up, surprised. “I was a bit of a mess last night, but Arthur took care of me. Built a fire, lent me his cloak, fed me—“ 

Francis looked horrified. “And yet you live?”

Alfred scoffed and rolled his eyes. “He didn’t cook it. Got it from some town nearby. But that’s beside the point. I was fine this morning, maybe a bit of a chill, but fine, better than the past week for certain. I don’t understand it. It’s like you want to hate them.”

“Perhaps I want to hate them, it seems with good reason. Despite how well he took care of you, you are here, fighting not to vomit whatever nice food he gave you last night due to sheer pain.”

“That is entirely Arlya’s fault, not Arthur’s,” Alfred defended. “She threw me into the ground.”

Francis was taken aback. “Why?”

Alfred shrugged with his good shoulder and shook his head just as Kiku arrived with a pitcher of water and a cup of some medicinal tea. 

“Drink this, it’ll help,” he said, handing over the tea. 

Alfred took a sip and winced. “This is terrible.”

“It’ll help,” Kiku repeated, and watched to make sure Alfred drank the entire cup. 

The tea did help, and Alfred felt better as the day progressed. By night fall, he was even better than he had been the night before. Just before he went to sleep, Arlya entered his room. She looked tired, but lacked the glazed, fevered look she had had that morning. Not knowing what to expect, he regarded her cautiously as she sat on his bedside. 

“I tried to save you, you know that.”

“I know,” Alfred began, “But Arlya—“

He was interrupted by her sigh of relief. She looked up at him, a small, grateful smile gracing her lips. 

“I’m so glad, my baby. This time was a fluke. He’ll be dead next time. You’ll see. I promise, this time was just a fluke.”

Alfred stared at her gleaming, adoring eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he didn’t need saving. She did love him, he knew. She threw herself between him and Natalia, unarmed, and had saved his life by risking serious injury to herself. He surely could give her this little piece of assurance in return. So he kept his silence. 

After a moment, Arlya spoke again. “I’ve been thinking, Alfred, the summer solstice is only a few days away.” Alfred perked up, attention immediately caught. The summer solstice was the grandest holiday of the year for the all of the mortal realm, especially those faithful to the gods. The longest day of the year was when Pakram’s power, and the rest of the gods by extension, peaked, and the day was always a cause of great celebration throughout the mortal realm. Before the resurgence of the Daemon War, it was the only time Alfred ventured into the mortal realm. “And I believe it would do you some good to help with the preparations,” Arlya continued. “It would certainly keep you busy, and the summer heat will be good for that cold you seem to be catching.”

Alfred grinned from ear to ear. His fear that the recent events with Arthur and Natalia would make Arlya keep him in Caelei subsided. He couldn’t believe his luck, Arlya was asking him to spend the next week or so working in the mortal realm. He threw his arms around her. 

“Thank you. Thank you, Arlya. That would be wonderful,” he said as she threaded her fingers through his hair. Finally, she pulled back, smiling. 

“I will wake you early tomorrow then, and we will go.”

Alfred nodded, then asked, “Will you be with me the whole time?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, and Alfred could barely conceal his relief. He would not be babysat the entire time then. “There is so much to be done, and I have to make the preparations at my temple, so I will be busy. My dedicates could use your help, of course, but there will be so much work to do that I’m sure you can find other people to work with. Now sleep, dearest, for we rise early.” And with a final kiss on his forehead, she left. 

* * *

Alfred was awoken the next morning by Arlya. He dragged himself from bed and only managed to wake himself up once he remembered where they were going. The main entrance of Aenea was already packed with traveling merchants beginning to set up their booths along the road. Though the solstice was a few days away yet, most of the merchants had already arrived to claim the best spots along the road. Many were chalking out their spaces, marking where the sturdy frames of their make-shift shops would be placed. 

As Alfred and Arlya passed, many people stopped their work and turned to bow, once to Arlya, then again to Alfred. 

“Word of our victory has spread quickly,” Arlya said. 

Alfred nodded and met every beaming gaze with a twinge of guilt. A small part of his mind whispered of Katerina and her innocence. But the longer Alfred met the adoring faces, the smaller that whisper became, until it was quiet enough to forget. 

The walked along the High Road, up to the towering temple that marked the center of the city. Over the heavy wooden doors hung the wrought-iron, twelve-pointed star, the symbol of the gods. To its right was a brass sun, polished and gleaming, to the left hung an equally bright silver moon marking it specifically as the temple of Pakram and Arlya. Dedicates streamed in and out, dressed in either gold or white robes, all busy with some task or another. 

As Arlya and Alfred passed them by, they would incline their heads in respect and continue about their work decorating the temple or carrying decorations and messages across the polished floor. Along the doors and walls dedicates stood on stools, hanging circular plates of yellow stained glass where they might catch the sun and scatter the light across the dark interior. 

Arlya grasped Alfred’s shoulder and steered him towards a group of white-clad women with crates full of the sun-catchers. Upon their approach, the women turned and bowed, once to Arlya and once to Alfred. In return, the goddess approached each in turn, placed a pale palm on her forehead, and whispered some sort of blessing in her  ear. 

“These are beautiful,” Arlya said, picking up a sun-catcher from the the crate. She examined the rippled glass, veined with dark iron in an elaborate spiral. “I believe they get better every year.”

The dedicate in charge dipped her head low and flushed a deep red. “The Lady Arlya is very kind,” she said. “But our decorations are modest, nothing in comparison to those of other dedicates.”

Alfred stepped forward and took one in hand, he turned it over, admiring it. “She’s right,” he said. “These are amazing. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“It is a tradition to scatter the solstice’s light throughout every house and temple, our designs are effective.”

Alfred nodded absently, looking over the temple. “Do you need any help hanging them?” he asked, as all the sun-catchers hung low on the walls or doorways of the towering temple. “I could get up to the higher places. Hang some more up.”

“Oh, we cannot ask such menial work from the goddess’ charge,” one dedicate said, flushing.

“Of course you can,” Alfred said, rising into the air, sun-catcher in his hands. “I’m happy to do it.”

Arlya looked at the scene with pride. Her baby, happy and helping her dedicates. Nothing could have pleased her more. With satisfaction, she turned and moved along to her own duties and preparations that she needed to make, leaving Alfred to flit amongst the towers of wood and iron, hanging the yellow-stained glass far out of any normal reach. 

The sun rose higher as noon approached and the temple was strung with little golden plates hanging from every crossbeam and every window. Alfred and the dedicates admired their handiwork before leaving the temple to find take their noon meal. The dedicates shared their plain bread and butter with Alfred and chatted as they ate. 

For the most part, Alfred was content to listen as they talked about their duties in and out of the temple. However, as Alfred was finishing his meal, a young dedicate with light brown hair settled beside him. 

“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” she said.

Alfred grinned and leaned back onto the warm stone that made up the temple’s courtyard. “It was nothing,” he said, then asked, “So what’s your name?”

“I’m Dedicate Selena. I know who you are, of course,” she said, blushing, then stammered, “How is it being the charge of the Lady Arlya? Is it wonderful?”

“Well, I don’t really know how to describe it,” Alfred replied after a moment. “I’ve never known anything else. It’s fine, I guess.”

“I envy you. She holds you in such high esteem.” Alfred snorted at that. Selena frowned, dismayed by his reaction. “Do not doubt it, we all do.” 

“Thanks,” he said, though inside he grimaced. If Arlya indeed held him in high esteem, she had an odd, contradictory way of showing it. Embarrassed, they silently chewed their bread and stared at the ground. 

The tension was broken by a shadow passing over them and a familiar chuckle. 

“I see you’ve found a lovely lady friend, Alfred. Care to introduce me?” Francis said, approaching them. Alfred stood and introduced Dedicate Selena, who looked positively scandalized. Francis stooped and took one of her hands, delicately kissing it. Selena jerked away and stood, backing away from Francis, face blooming scarlet with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. 

“How dare you?” she gasped. Alfred, completely taken by surprise by the whole exchange, looked to Francis for help. However, he didn’t look at Alfred; his eyes, dancing with delighted mischief at the woman’s reaction, focused only on Selena. 

“Oh, come now, you beautiful woman. There is nothing to be frightened of, I am a good man. In fact, there are many ways in which I am good. And I so do wish to show you all of them,” he said, smirk never faltering.

The other dedicates saw the commotion and hurried over. The head of the crew Alfred had been helping put herself between Francis and Selena. She clutched the bright sash around her waist, holding onto it as if it would shield her.

Francis laughed at the display. “I assure you, there is no need to be so pushy dedicate,” he said. “I have more than enough love for everyone, if you’ll just be patient with me.”

The dedicate spat at his feet, and lead the others away. A hand grabbed Alfred and pulled him along; it was Selena’s. 

“Do you have to deal with that often?” she asked. 

Alfred shrugged. “He gets like that sometimes. Though I think a while ago Arlya somehow threatened him and he stopped doing it to me. Mostly. Though I never really noticed—“ he stopped when he saw Selena’s horrified face staring at him. 

“He… he did that to _you_?” she stuttered. 

Alfred shifted uncomfortably. “Like I said, I never really picked up on it. Kiku—a friend—pointed it out sometimes though.”

She stood, silent, gaping at him. Finally she spoke again and they continued walking. “But you’re Arlya’s,” she fussed. “That shouldn’t happen. How could she let it?”

Alfred just laughed, earning an affronted glare from Selena. “It’s Francis,” he said simply. She kept staring at him in disbelief, which Alfred found unnerving, so he excused himself from Selena’s company and joined the other dedicates in the temple where they resumed decorating. 

Once again, he found the dedicates and the others who wandered in and out of the temple good company. Most, if not all, desired to speak to him, and Alfred found himself enjoying their attention more and more. Never before had he been treated like this, almost with reverence, by anyone. As such, he was annoyed when shouts and a commotion coming from down the temple road disrupted the atmosphere. 

The dedicates that Alfred was working with exited the temple to investigate, and Alfred followed. The disturbance came from the down one of the main roads, running from the south-west side of the city wall to the Temple of the Sun and Moon which lay in Aenea’s center. Curious onlookers had gathered around the source of the uproar and the dedicates could get no closer. However, Alfred jumped into the air and drifted over the crowd. 

On one side of the road stood a temple, not as tall or majestic as the central temple but impressive nonetheless. Above its open doors a ten-pointed star marked it as a temple to the gods. However this star was held by a great polished steel swan, great wings curved up and away over the doorway, its head bowed. Francis stood in the courtyard, facing a woman in the scarlet robes that marked her as his dedicate. Behind her, in the doorway of the temple, other women in similar garb stood, listening. 

“My Lord,” the woman said, “I assure you your dedicates are always working in your name. Though if you have concerns, I must insist we talk of this in private—“

“No,” Francis said. He stood, unmoving, arms folded across his tunic. “I have told you, Dedicate, I wish to speak to all my dedicates. I must insist.”

“And I simply cannot allow that. It is written that only the head dedicate may speak with the god. So if I may escort you—“

“I said, no,” he said, voice raising. He glanced over at the temple entrance. “You,” he said addressing the dedicates, “gather you sisters, for I wish to speak with all of you. In person.”

Some of the women began to move; however the head dedicate shouted, “Stop, my children! It is a test. He is testing your loyalty to the laws he laid down,” she said, getting frantic. The dedicates glanced between her and Francis, torn, though they yielded to the dedicate’s orders. With a final glance at Francis, the head dedicate disappeared into the temple. 

Francis seemed to slump, then turned to the crowd gathered silently in the street. With a final glare, he walked through the crowd, who parted for him, and up a less crowded side street. Alfred, who had watched the exchange with bewilderment, followed from above. Both he and Francis were startled when a woman dressed in a red robe dashed out towards Francis. Alfred hovered above, unnoticed, as she addressed him with a bow. 

“Hello,” Francis said cautiously. 

“My lord. I know it is improper, but please, I would like to hear what you have to say. You have met with the Temple leaders often, but they never tell us what is said.”

Francis looked at the woman as if heartbroken. Her hair was pinned back in intricate curls that trailed down the back of her simple robe and the her face was decorated with subtle yet defining paint strokes. “My dear,” he said, “you are lovely.”

The dedicate looked at him, confused. “I’m sorry, do you want any of my services…?” she asked. 

“No! No. Just an observation.”

She paused. “Then what did you wish to tell us?”

“I wished to tell you that I cannot approve of what the Temple does.”

“But we do it for you,” she said, confused. 

“Do you enjoy your work?” Francis asked. "Do your brothers and sisters enjoy it?"

The woman looked confused. "Enjoy it...?"

"Yes."

"I do my duty, and that makes me happy." She frowned, then said shyly, "I don't understand. Your dedicates run many brothels throughout the realm."

"They're different," Francis sighed. 

"How?"

"Here, in  _my_ name, you are commanded to serve whoever desires you, however they want you, so long as it is within the head dedicate's limits. Can you say no? Are you safe? Are you paid? Are you allowed to leave whenever you desire?"

The woman stared at Francis, then looked down.

“So what would you have me do?”

Francis looked around the clean-swept street down to the towering walls that closed Aenea off from the world. “I would have you travel, as my other dedicates do. Travel, create, find or make a family, make your mark on the world.”

The two stood in silence. Finally the woman turned back to Francis, “That sounds lovely,” she said, and Francis beamed. “But where would I go? Albion? To be just another refugee? Drachma? The city those refugees flee from in the first place? Even if there was a place worth going, the roads are stalked by daemons. I’m sorry, my lord, but here I am warm and fed and safe and my work not usually unpleasant. You ask too much for me to give that up.”

With that, she walked away, slipping back into the temple. Francis stared after her, and Alfred touched down beside him.

“Francis?” he ventured. When no response came, he laid a hand on his shoulder. “Francis, maybe she’s right. Things aren’t really so bad here. Look at the dedicates; they don't seem unhappy.”

Francis shrugged off Alfred. “She is trapped, like a bird in a cage. She is kept her so the city will not change, so it stays strong and stable.”

“What do you mean? Francis, you're not making any sense. You like sleeping around, some of your dedicates work in or run brothels. Why are you acting like this one is so bad?”

"You don't know how they do things here. That they sell their love is not the problem. Love can be an art. But no one would force an unwilling man to be a painter. And no one would force that painter to paint something against their will. No one would force the painter to destroy a piece they loved. It is wrong, Alfred. And that they do it in  _my_  name..." Francis made a small choking sound. 

Alfred didn't know how to respond to Francis' strange distress, so he changed tactics. “Well, you said it was for the sake of stability, right? The daemons will destroy this city if given the chance. They tried once already last winter. Who knows when they will strike it again. So keeping the city stable is necessary.”

“Is the stability of one city worth murdering for?” Francis asked. 

“What?” asked Alfred.

The god turned on Alfred, his blue eyes harsh and accusing. “Katerina was the just the first," he said. "To protect this city, the others will die. Are you willing to pay for this city with their lives? With Arthur's life? With that woman's freedom to a safe and meaningful life?” Francis turned and walked down the cobbled street, Alfred following a step behind. 

“Look at this place, Alfred,” Francis continued. “It is the center of the worship of the gods, the center of life for many of the most devout dedicates. From here the gods can reach into the world.”

“And do what?” Alfred asked nervously. 

“Many things. Do you wish to see?” Francis stopped in the middle of the road. He stared ahead into the center of the city as he awaited Alfred’s answer. 

“Yes,” Alfred answered finally. “I want to.”

“Then it is time for you to see Drachma.”


	13. The Fallen City

Alfred did his best not to stumble as his feet landed on damp, slick bricks. The air was humid and hot, and Alfred distinctly smelled fish in the air, covering up some deeper, almost sweet scent. The sun beat down from overhead, gleaming off the tallest buildings Alfred had ever seen. They were made of polished white marble, and many were patterned with chips of some lapis-blue gem. As they caught the sunlight, they threw a blue glow along all the twisting footpaths. Much like Aenea, decorations were strung up between the buildings.

The footpath they had landed in was empty, and while it was quiet, there was low humming in the air that Alfred wasn’t sure was real. Despite the heat, Alfred shivered. 

“So this is Drachma?” he asked. His words seemed swallowed up by the damp air. 

Francis nodded. “The Central District to be precise. Come.”

Alfred fell into step behind Francis as they followed the meandering path. In a few minutes, Alfred was horribly turned around and had lost all sense of direction. It reminded him of the canyons in Caelei, only a strip of sky visible through the tall, tightly packed buildings. Francis kept silent, but the humming was growing, definitely real now. 

The noise continued to grow, until they came around a bend and onto the edge of a courtyard packed with people. Rising up from the masses was the largest building Alfred had ever seen. Walls of dusky black iron shot up to make a blocky tower, behind which stood a short, long building. The tower could probably be seen looming from well outside the city, even if the tall maze of buildings made it invisible from the inside. 

“What is that?” Alfred whispered. 

“A temple,” Francis said.

“It doesn’t look like a temple.”

“It’s new. Completed only a few years ago, along with the others.”

“Others?”

Francis pointed out over the buildings. Through the hazy afternoon, a few other towers could be seen. 

“Every district has a temple,” he said. “Merchants’ District has two. The towers are for watching, the buildings behind are barracks.”

They started moving around the edges of the courtyard. Several men in some kind of uniform that bore the sign of Daka’s soldiers eyed them suspiciously. A few broke off and followed them at a distance. Francis picked up his pace and Alfred jogged after him. They rounded a sharp bend when Alfred’s boots slid out from under him and he toppled onto the brick-paved street. Grimacing, he pushed himself up and wiped the street muck off his trousers. 

“Francis, what is this place?” Alfred asked. 

“This is Drachma,” Francis said irritably. 

Alfred sighed. “I know that. But it’s filthy, and it smells, and we’re being followed by temple guards. What is going on?”

“Come on, it’s just a little further.” 

The street twisted and forked. Lining it were dusty, run down shops and smiths, most of which seemed closed. They occasionally passed people, but they all glared mistrustfully and swept away. Alfred was hopelessly turned around by the time the street opened out into a square that housed a group of white buildings. Unlike the rest of the city, the square was remarkably clean, and intricate patterns of blue sapphires decorated the important looking buildings. The only thing that seemed off about it was another, larger formation of guards all marked with Daka’s sigil, that stood in front of the buildings. 

“Welcome to the Center, Alfred,” Francis said, not yet setting foot onto the white bricks. “This is where the city is run. Those buildings house the courts and quarters of the magistrates who keep the city functioning—and of late, er… _representatives_ …from Aenea.”

“It’s cleaner than the rest of the city,” Alfred noticed. 

Francis laughed humorlessly. “Yes, it is. Wouldn’t want the temple officials to have to step in grime, now would we?”

They began walking around the outskirts of the square, keeping to the shadows of the buildings. 

“You can tell which streets lead directly to the temple barracks,” Francis continued. “They bother to keep those clean.”

“And why not the rest of the city?” Alfred asked as they turned down another dim street. This one was short, and soon ended on a small, wooden dock over a canal. 

“Too expensive,” said Francis. “Why clean the city when you can put that money into the war?”

“The war’s here too?” Alfred asked. He wondered if Drachma had been attacked as Aenea had been the past winter. 

A narrowboat pulled up to the dock. An old man with a long pole stood in the back. When he saw Francis, his wrinkled face split into a grin. 

“This solstice may be blessed yet,” he said, dipping his head. “It’s been far too long since you’ve graced us with your presence, Francis.”

“Far too long indeed,” Francis said, his expression lightening for the first time that afternoon. He took the old man’s hand and stepped into the boat. Alfred remained on the dock. The boat did not look particularly stable as it swayed against the dock. 

Francis rolled his eyes. “Come on, Alfred, there’s no need to worry, the Drachman boat runners are good at their job. You won’t fall in.”

Reluctantly, Alfred stepped in. The boat swayed a bit under his feet, then steadied. Alfred immediately took a seat. Francis joined him after giving a destination to the boat runner. 

“Yes, the war is indeed here, to answer your question,” Francis said. “Drachma has become the gods’ stronghold—our base of attack in the south.”

The boat runner snorted. 

“So Daka’s guards aren’t supposed to be here?” Alfred asked. 

“‘Supposed to be here’ is the wrong way of looking at it,” Francis sighed. 

“I think the boy has it pretty well,” the boat runner interrupted. “The gods ruined our city. Not to be disrespectful, Lord Francis.” He put an ironic emphasis on the word 'lord.'

Francis waved his hand apathetically. “It is hard to take offense to the truth, my friend.”

Alfred had never heard such things said about the gods from anyone but Arthur. It took him aback, and he sat in silence as the narrow boat quietly drifted eastward through the city. 

When they finally got out, they reentered the maze of buildings, which was even thicker and more convoluted than those in the Central District. The buildings here were cheaper, mostly made of wood, rather than the expensive stone they had seen before. Nevertheless, underneath the layer of soot and grime, Alfred could make out faint traces of patterns where the wood had once been painted. 

They ambled along, and Alfred started to get the impression that Francis had no particular destination in mind. That was well enough, for the aura of poverty that hung around the slum weighed on Alfred’s spirits. 

People eyed them warily, often retreating into the collapsing houses as they passed—or at least until they recognized Francis. Alfred was startled by the swing of mood the god caused. Many came out to greet him personally, as if he were an old friend, and he in turn addressed many of them by name. Soon, Alfred found himself dragged behind Francis into an open, if dirty, square. The crowd grew around them in both number and sound. Francis mingled happily with them. 

For the most part, they ignored Alfred. Most glanced at him, then away, and Alfred realized it was because they didn’t know who he was. It was a stark contrast to the reverence he was met with in Aenea, but Alfred found he didn’t really mind the anonymity. He stayed close to Francis and let the musical voices wash over him. 

The crowd began to organize itself, obviously starting up some ritual; people dashed into the dirty buildings and returned with various instruments, which were often better kept than those who played them. Alfred moved off to the side, but Francis stayed in the throng. They formed several lines across the square and soon the musicians started up a flowing, tune led by an elderly flautist. She was soon joined by several stringed instruments, several lyres and then ones played with a bow that Alfred had never seen before. 

It was a simple, obviously well known dance than moved like water throughout the lines. Pairs joined hands then let go, never staying with one partner for long. The flute sung in the old woman’s firm hands, but soon the tune changed. The lines dissolved, and the people broke into another clearly well-known dance. Where the previous dance flowed gracefully, this one had no clear pattern of motion, though there seemed to be a set of steps that everyone followed. 

They clapped and skipped along, setting a definite beat to the flittering flute and the strange strings. Alfred found his own feet tapping as he stood observing the dancers. The townspeople were in torn, ragged clothing, but it didn’t stop Alfred from admiring the way the women’s skirts flew out as they spun or the glittering of cheap crystal jewelry in the bright solstice sun. 

Laughing, Francis came up to him, and pulled him into the fray. Alfred caught on to the dance quickly enough, and finesse didn’t seem to be an issue here. Soon enough, Alfred found himself laughing and clapping as the strings crescendoed and the flute rose above them in a twittering harmony. 

That was when the screaming started. Guards bearing the sigil of Daka moved into the square and began breaking up the crowd with heavy, lead-cored batons. The throng exploded, everyone trying to get away at once. More than one fell under the harsh cracks and shouts of the guards. 

Alfred looked around, bewildered. He struggled not to be trampled and managed to pick up some of what the guards were shouting. 

“Damned heathens!”

“How dare you worship scum on the day of the gods!”

“Blasphemers!”

Groups of people fled out of the square, and Alfred was dragged with them. Finally, he managed to extract himself and took cover in a mostly empty alleyway. He looked out, searching for Francis in the mess. He spotted the god’s golden hair easily.

Francis was caught up in the crowd too, looking reluctant to leave those who had fallen. However, once he spotted Alfred, he vanished and reappeared by Alfred’s side. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

“Fine,” Alfred said. “But what about them?”

“I’ll take care of it. Go—“

A cold laugh cut Francis off. 

“You’re little ploy worked well, didn’t it?” a familiar voice asked. 

A shadow dropped from one of the roof tops and landed with a thud on the bricks. Arthur stood, glaring, and swept his black cloak behind him. 

“What are you talking about?” Francis demanded. 

“Clever,” Arthur said. “Luring all those people out, just so they could be beaten down by Daka’s guards.”

Francis’ face bloomed scarlet. “That’s outrageous? I would never—“

“Oh, shut up,” Arthur snapped. “You had guards tailing you. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

Francis froze, his eyes widened in horror. “Those dances. They were daemon dances.”

“What?” Alfred asked. 

“Those dances are traditional of the plains people. They worship Elizaveta.”

“That’s right. You got them to blaspheme and led the guards right to them,” Arthur said. “As I said—clever. But I’ll warn you now, Francis. Everything changes today. Our people will not—“

“Your people?” Francis shouted. “How are these your people?”

“Are they yours then? You’re not even from this world; I am!”

“I’m their patron!”

“What sort of patron leads his people to their death?”

Francis paled. “I…I didn’t know. We were just dancing,” he said softly. 

Alfred stood behind Francis, trying to catch Arthur’s eyes. Maybe Arthur would listen to him, but the daemon carefully avoided even glancing at Alfred. 

Arthur snorted. “This is just like you, Francis: too excited about the dancing to ever really notice what’s going on around you.”

Francis’ head shot up and his eyes blazed at the comment. Arthur continued, a cruel smile just barely appearing on his lips. 

“Oh, I remember you and your music. You used to play and play and play, lording over everything in existence just because you could harmonize two chords. You even thought _that_ would keep me interested, keep me distracted while you went off and seduced every charming peasant you came across.”

“You were envious of my talents. Don’t try to deny it,” Francis spat. “I know why you left.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to flush. “I left because you were an arrogant, selfish fool!”

Francis took several steps toward Arthur, seeming to inflate as he approached. “And then you stole my most precious gift.”

“Yes, I was involved. How could I not be when you began to steal my world’s gifts?”

Francis lunged forward and hit Arthur across the face with a shout. Arthur reeled, but spun and kicked, his blunt, black nails scraping over Francis’ skin. 

The two threw themselves into the fight. Francis was bigger, but Arthur was faster and a more experienced fighter.  They exchanged blows, neither backing down. Their argument had devolved into a shouting match, and they didn’t hear the screams that started behind them, in the square. 

Alfred heard it though, and it make his blood run cold. He turned, leaving the feuding pair, and ran towards the noise. The sight made him freeze. 

The white bricks glistened with blood. Several bodies were strewn across the square, nearly unrecognizable as human. The guards stood in a circle, executing the rest they’d managed to capture, many of whom were screaming. Alfred recognized the flautist among the crowd, one of the few who remained calm. The guard held her arms behind her back and her flute lie broken a small distance away. Nevertheless, she kneeled straight-backed, and when Alfred caught her eyes, they were determined, not frightened. _Get out_ she mouthed at him. 

With a small nod, Alfred turned and took flight. However, he wasn’t running. He was going to do his job: he was going to spread the word. 

He saw heads poking out of the doors and windows of the collapsing buildings. Daka’s guards were trained soldiers, but there weren’t that many of them. Yes, the slums were packed, Alfred noticed. Family upon family lived in a single building. 

“The guards of the city—they’re beating and slaughtering your neighbors and friends,” Alfred shouted, his voice echoing along the street. “What will you do?” 

Eyes gleamed defiantly. Alfred departed, satisfied. He wouldn’t tell them to fight—they’d have to choose that themselves. But Alfred saw the anger and the resentment in them. They had the numbers. They would fight. They could probably win.

He rushed through the air, filling the other streets with the news. Once one area was finished, he flew up and away in search of the other districts’ people. He was flying through the air over the canals when something also airborne almost slammed into him. He spun around and found himself face to face with Elizaveta. She still hadn’t recovered completely from her fight with Daka. Her wing beats were strained, and she wore only light leather clothes. She glared at Alfred, and swung her spear at him in warning.

“Stay out of the way if you don’t want to get killed,” she said. Then she flew off. 

Alfred planned to take that advice. He turned and flew towards another residential area. He wanted to spread the news of the uprising, not participate—at least not yet. 

* * *

Gilbert cringed as he appeared alongside Daka and Vahnic outside the guard barracks. He’d never liked the humidity of the south, and the recent decline of the city didn’t help any. 

Now that same city was in chaos. Shouts could be heard from all around, and the gods’ guards ran about trying to quell the sudden uprising. The head of the guard had sent for Daka, and he met the gods with obvious relief. 

“I don’t know what’s happened, My Lady,” he said. “The Drachmans—they just went crazy.”

Daka brushed him aside, unconcerned. She turned to Gilbert and Vahnic. 

“Crush the resistance,” she ordered. “Make an example to the rest of the city. They are under a holy occupation, and this behavior will not be tolerated.”

Gilbert nodded and turned away. He didn’t really like it, slaughtering these people. But he knew it must be done. It was basic politics, any dissent must be entirely eliminated. And the gods needed this city—it was their only real access point into the south, the only way they could really mount an attack on the southern Daemons. 

He stalked off down the streets, just headed towards noise. He inhaled, feeling the bright sun on his shoulders, lending him strength in the humid heat. It wasn’t going to be pretty, so he steeled himself now. He thought of the woods this time of year—how they would be quivering with life. The thought sustained him as he entered one of the larger squares in the Central District. It was swarming with people and guards. Already bodies were strewn across the grime-coated bricks, mostly Drachmans. There was something about blood, Gilbert though as he stared at it, transfixed. His vision narrowed, and his hands twitched towards the bow and arrows that hung across his back. 

The hunt was on. The smell of blood was thick in the air, and every movement caught Gilbert’s eyes as a struggling deer or fowl in the woods. Before he really knew what he was doing, his bow was strung. He vanished from his spot, reappearing on top of one of the buildings a second later. It would be easy pickings from here. 

He plucked an arrow from the quiver strung across his back. With almost reverent care, he placed it on the string and drew it, hand resting comfortably against his cheek. He stared down at the crowd, identifying individual creatures from the mass. 

_There_ , he though as he spied one breaking from the group. He fired, and the woman crumpled. Her blood ran through the cracks between the bricks. Gilbert could smell it. He notched another arrow, then fired. This time a man fell. Again. Again. Again. They dropped like stones. 

He notched another arrow and took aim. Another person broke free of the panicking mob. He released, and watched it sail. He jerked with a start as an winged figure swooped down and knocked the arrow off course. 

Gilbert rose from his hunter’s crouch swearing as he drew another arrow, this time aimed at the flying figure. He snarled, and released. The arrow snapped towards her. However, suddenly she wasn’t there, and his arrow arched away harmlessly. 

A solid crack landed across the back of his skull. Howling in pain, he wheeled around, to where the flying figure had materialized behind him. Elizaveta landed softly, great wings folding behind her. 

She said nothing, but lunged again for Gilbert, swinging her spear. Cursing, Gilbert duck and tried to counter attack. She blocked and gave him another solid blow with the spear’s staff. Gilbert’s bloodlust roared through him. “Monster!” he shouted, and he spun, trying to grab at the daemon.

Elizaveta skipped just out of his reach. She pushed off the building roof, and snapped her wings open, taking to the air. Gilbert reached back and notched an arrow, then fired. Elizaveta ducked and the arrow sailed over her. Then she dove, slamming into Gilbert and sending him through the roof he stood on. 

“I’m not the monster here,” she snarled, alighting on the edge of the hole. She glared down where Gilbert lay in a heap. She spat, then launched herself into the air. 

The violent frenzy that had come over him drained away, and all Gilbert could feel was pain that would take weeks to heal. He slowly got to his feet, and found he wasn’t able to stand very well. He fell back into the rubble and looked up grudgingly at the hole he’d fallen through, then paused. Something was strange. He hurt all over, but that wasn’t what bothered him. It was that Elizaveta had dared to call him a monster. 

Though they had both been alive for thousands of years, his and the daemon’s paths had never crossed much, even before the First Daemon war. But seeing her fight today, how she moved and read all of his moves perfectly played over in his mind. And her words. They stung. Why did they sting? 

The screams of people, guard and Drachman alike echoed through the city. The stench of blood was still thick in the air, but it didn’t go to Gilbert’s head this time. As he sat alone in the ruined house, Gilbert realized why Elizaveta’s remark stung. 

It was because she was right. 

* * *

 

Alfred soared over the rioting city. The people were making a stand. However the streets and squares were stained with blood of both sides. It pained Alfred, but the Drachmans had a right to fight for their city. 

He had carried the message throughout the city. Some places had immediately holed up, keeping out out of the fighting. Others had jumped to arms. 

Movement caught Alfred’s eye. He turned and caught sight of Arthur and Francis. They hoped across rooftops exchanging blows, neither gaining much ground on the other. Alfred could hear their shouts and taunts even over the dim of the city fighting. Maybe he could make the two stop. They weren’t even on opposite sides here—they both wanted to see the Drachmans free again. 

He was about to swoop in when he caught a different sight: Vahnic and Daka making their way towards the square. 

“This can’t be good,” Alfred said to himself, and tailed them from above. 

The gods approached the square, but before entering, stopped. They leaned together, whispering, then vanished. Alfred, startled, looked around, but he couldn’t find them. 

The mob in the square erupted. In the middle, Daka and Vahnic had appeared, and before any of the people could react, the slaughter had begun. Alfred watched horrified. Struggle between the guards of the people had been a bloody fight, but this was a massacre. In a matter of minutes, the hundred or so Drachmans who had packed the square were dead, soaking in their own blood. The guards had not been touched, but even they shrunk back from the gods in all their power. 

As Vahnic and Daka left the square, Alfred knew he had to do something to stop them. He wheeled around in the air, flying towards the only people he could think of that could stand a chance—and who were currently fighting each other rather than the real enemy of these people. 

Francis and Arthur were exactly as Alfred had left them. He hovered above them, wondering how best to get their attention. He shook his head. Now was not the time for niceties. He’d just seen a hundred people murdered in just a few minutes. It would happen again if he waited too long. 

Throwing caution to the wind, Alfred dropped out of the air, landing between Francis and Arthur. Both cursed and stopped their attacks. 

“What on earth are you doing, Alfred?” Arthur shouted. 

“This doesn’t concern you,” Francis said. 

“I know, I know. Just shut up and listen to me!” Alfred yelled. He was met with glares from both sides. Shaking his head in fury, he said, “Daka and Vahnic are tearing this city to shreds, and all you two can think about is some stupid thing that happened a long time ago. People are dying!” He took a breath to try and steady himself, but failed miserably. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his glasses and wished he could be more effective. 

“What?” Arthur asked blankly. Francis said nothing at all—just turned and ran deeper into the city.

“They’re being executed out there,” Alfred said through gritted teeth. “And you didn’t even _notice_.”

Arthur stared at Alfred as if he had grown another head. “I…I’m sorry,” he said, then vanished. 

The sun had begun to sink in the west as Alfred looked over the fallen city. The water in the great lake to the south looked uncomfortably red. Alfred sighed. He jumped into the air and set off in the direction he thought Daka and Vahnic had been headed. 

It wasn’t hard to follow the two gods—carnage line the streets they had passed. Alfred sped up, eventually opening up into a square. People struggled to leave, and Alfred feared for the worse as he saw two figures in the center of the square. 

But as he approached, Alfred saw that it was Vahnic and Francis—not Daka—and that they were locked in combat. It wasn’t evenly matched; Vahnic was obviously the better fighter. However, he seemed thrown by the intensity with which Francis attacked. 

The two broke apart for a moment, and Francis called to Alfred, “Daka ran off. Find her, Alfred, please!”

Alfred nodded and Francis turned back to Vahnic. Taking a few running steps then launching into the air, he sped off over the roof tops of the city. In the distance, he could see a pair of figures fighting against the red sunset. 

Alfred raced towards them. As he approached his suspicions were confirmed: Arthur and Daka were fighting on the rooftops. Arthur didn’t seem to be faring well. He was rapidly losing ground and he clutched his side where blood was starting to trickle through his fingers. They moved along the edge of a roof, and soon Arthur was cornered. He wouldn’t be able to jump the gap between the buildings. He glanced behind himself, at the drop behind him—several stories tall and ending on a brick lined street. It was unlikely he would be able to survive a fall like that. 

Daka made a swing for Arthur. He managed to duck, but just barely. Dodging left him off-balance, and Daka smirked as she prepared for her finishing blow. She shoved him, square in the chest, and he began to fall.

“Arthur!” Alfred shouted, all his recent resentment towards the daemon vanished. There was no hesitation. He was a blur of motion, and he collided painfully with Arthur. 

Alfred grabbed Arthur, and they tumbled through the air before Alfred regained his balance. Arthur was too heavy to carry, but Alfred managed to land them safely on the ground. They lay on the street, panting and staring at each other. 

“Are you alright?” Alfred asked. Arthur nodded shakily. 

“Yes. I…I mean, er, thanks,” Arthur stuttered. Alfred grinned. 

Daka burst onto the street behind them, letting out a terrible shriek. Arthur jumped to his feet. 

“Come on. Run,” he said, pulling Alfred up behind him. 

“What about you’re side?” Alfred asked. It was bleeding freely again. 

“Traitor! You filthy traitor!” Daka screamed. 

“I’ll deal with it later. Now come on.”

Arthur grabbed Alfred’s hand and took off. They twisted down the streets, trying to shake the war goddess. They were running down the side of one of the canals when Arthur slipped. He hit the ground hard. Alfred knelt down beside him. 

“Arthur!”

“Keep going, Alfred.”

A thought occurred to Alfred. “Can’t you just vanish?” he asked. 

Arthur shook his head. “That takes a lot of energy. I can’t.”

“Come on,” Alfred encouraged, pulling at Arthur’s arms. “Just a little farther. I’ll think of something.”

Arthur chuckled, but managed to stand up. Alfred could hear Daka approaching. 

They managed to make it to a sheltered corner, Arthur putting most of his weight on Alfred’s shoulder. He collapsed to the ground, but Alfred remained standing. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said. Arthur made no response. 

Alfred launched himself into the sky, and searched for the figure he’d encountered before. He saw her in the distance, soaring over the city. Alfred made for her as fast as he could. 

“Hey!” he shouted as he approached. The daemon, Elizaveta whirled in the air to face him. She eyed Alfred suspiciously. 

“What do you want?”

“It’s Arthur,” Alfred said, panting. “He’s hurt badly and he needs to get out of here.”

Elizaveta’s eyes widened. “Lead the way,” she said, falling in behind Alfred. 

They flew across the city to where Alfred had left Arthur, though it seemed they weren’t the only ones on the way. Daka had spotted Arthur and was sprinting for him. 

“Get Arthur,” Alfred told Elizaveta. “I’ll distract her.” The daemon looked wary, but nodded. She dove down to the street and scooped up Arthur. Once he was satisfied Arthur was taken care of, Alfred swerved and slammed into Daka as hard as he could, throwing them both into a house that lined the street. 

Alfred lay in a slight daze when Daka extracted herself from him and began to screech and curse at him. 

“I knew it from the start!” she cried. “You’ve never been anything but an incompetent pet of Arlya and now look at the mess you made!”

She punched him in the chest. Alfred could only curl up and endure the abuse. She thrashed against him, fists, feet, curses. Finally, someone pulled her off of him. 

“Daka, stop. You’ll kill him,” Francis said, holding Daka’s arms above her head. 

“It’s nothing less than he deserves,” she spat. “You saw him. He _helped_ a daemon, or had you forgotten we’re at war with them?”

“How could I forget,” Francis muttered darkly. 

“Then let me kill the traitor.”

“No. We can’t kill him.”

“Why not? What else should we do.”

Francis seemed at a loss. Then he glanced at Alfred apologetically. 

“We’ll take him to the court. He’ll go on trial for treason against the gods.”


	14. Judgement

“There’s really no reason for this trial,” Daka snapped impatiently. “He saved that Daemon’s life. He needs to die.”

The court was quiet. None of the gods seemed to be able to find an argument against her, though both Arlya and Francis seemed to be wracking their brains for one. 

Pakram took pity on them. “He has been useful this past year,” he said. “The least we can do is give him a trial before we execute him.”

Daka snorted, but relented. She took her seat beside Vahnic and crossed her arms irritably. 

“Bring him in,” Pakram ordered. 

Alfred was walked into the center of the circle of gods by Paan, who gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. Neither Francis nor Arlya had been allowed to accompany him. Paan left him standing as she took her seat in the circle of thrones.

“Alfred, you’re brought before the court of the gods on account of treason,” Pakram began, from his high, golden seat. “It is alleged that you aided in the enemy, a High Daemon, in escaping death from one of our own. Do you understand the charges?” 

Alfred opened his mouth and tried to speak. Nothing came out. He took a moment to compose himself, then said in as steady a voice as he could muster, “Yes, I do.”

“And do you understand the consequences for treason?”

“Death?”

“That is correct,” Pakram said. “Alfred, did you or did you not save the life of the High Daemon, Arthur?”

“I did,” Alfred said, staring at the ground. 

“Do you have anything to say in your own defense?”

Alfred thought a moment, though thinking seemed like wading through mud. 

“I didn’t think,” Alfred said lamely. “It was automatic. He was in danger and I could do something.” He caught a glimpse of Arlya from the corner of his eye. She was pale and trembling—with grief or rage at his betrayal Alfred could not tell. 

The court weighed his words carefully. Finally Pakram spoke again. 

“If you could go back in time, would you do it again?”

Alfred stared ahead. He could say no. He should say no. He needed to say no right now or he’d be killed. But there was part of him that refused. Somehow Arthur had become a friend, and Alfred knew that he’d do nothing different if he had the chance. 

Catching Francis’ eye, Alfred silently begged him for some queue in how to act. But before he could give any sign, Pakram and the other gods inferred their answer from Alfred’s silence. 

“It is clear that while your actions were not planned or thought through, you hold no regret for them,” Pakram said. “That will be all, Alfred. You will wait while we decide your fate.”

Alfred nodded. Francis rose, and looked to Pakram for permission to accompany Alfred. Pakram nodded. 

Francis guided Alfred by the shoulder. They walked out of the hall, where they stood a moment on the exposed mountain side. As usual, there was no wind, and the vast height didn’t give Alfred any of the usual thrill. 

“So they’ll just kill me now?” he asked Francis. 

Francis tried to smile, but it was apparent that he was worried. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t let anything happen to you. This will all blow over in just a few days.”

“Right,” Alfred said, seeing straight through the lie. Francis gave him another sad smile and walked back into the court. 

Slumping against the cold stone, Alfred ran his fingers over an imaginary lyre, the familiar movements comforting him. He was dead. There were no two ways about it. He sighed and resigned himself to the wait.

~~~

“I don’t think we have much choice in the matter. Alfred must be executed,” Pakram said slowly. He gazed carefully at Arlya, who wept. 

“I don’t believe he would do that,” she whispered. 

“The fact remains that he did,” Pakram said. “Daka witnessed it and he as good as confessed. Francis, have you anything to say?”

Francis thought a moment, carefully choosing his words. “I know our laws say that treason must be met with death. However, I can’t justify killing him. It feels wrong.”

“Well you can take your feelings and leave,” Daka said. “The law is simple. Now, please, let us get _on_ with it.”

At her words, Arlya broke into sobs. Her white braids hung mournfully around her cheeks as she sank to the floor. “My baby’s dead. He’s dead. My baby’s dead to me,” she howled. 

Arlya’s cries were interrupted, by a soft, sandpaper voice. 

“I side with Francis,” it said. “Though not because of ‘feelings.’” The gods turned to see Circalous, the eldest god, still seated. He moved slowly, reaching for a goblet that rested on the arm of his throne. He took a sip, then continued:

 “When the boy was first brought here, years ago, I saw his future and gave a prophecy.”

Arlya’s head shot up at this, as she remembered. 

“Yes,” she said, hope rising in her voice. “It said—“

“‘Deep shall he fall, down to Daemon’s heart,’ only to return and play his part,” Circalous said. “You see, everything is going according to my prophecy. It is Fate’s decree that Alfred bring about the end of this war, and Fate will not be denied. It would be foolish to kill him.”

With that, the god fell still and silent, turning his white eyes back to nothing. 

The rest of the court stood in silence as they digested the information. Finally Arlya broke the silence. 

“It seems the issue is settled, then,” she said tentatively. “This is just a part of the prophecy. Everything goes back to normal.”

Daka shifted uncomfortably, obviously irritated by the turn of events. She did, however, keep her silence—even she was not foolish enough to violate Fate. 

Much Arlya’s dismay Pakram spoke up. “While we cannot kill him, Alfred still must pay for his treason. I propose he be stripped of his wings and banished to the mortal realm.”

Many of the gods voiced their support for Pakram’s deal. Arlya, however, was furious and fought against it. 

“I just got him back!” she shrieked. “How dare you send him away from me—he’ll get better. He won’t do it again!”

“I plan to ensure that,” Pakram said with as much patience as he could muster. “It’s as you said, Arlya. He’ll change, then we’ll take him back. In the meantime, though, he must be punished.”

Arlya could raise no reasonable argument, so rather she screeched wordlessly at them and vanished from the court. Shaking his head in frustration, Pakram left the court and found Alfred sitting outside. He stared at the pale sky and jumped when Pakram spoke. 

“We have reached a decision,” he said. Alfred turned to face him, obviously scared, but resigned.

“I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he said with just a faint tremor in his voice. 

Pakram cleared his throat. “We have decided to be lenient,” he said. “We cannot overlook the faithful service you’ve provided in the past. You will be exiled until such a time it is deemed that your loyalty is no longer in question.”

Alfred’s jaw dropped.

He wasn’t going to die. 

He wasn’t going to die. 

He wasn’t going to die. 

The realization swelled through him and he felt shaky with relief. The word “exile” hung vaguely in his ears, but it couldn’t compete with the knowledge that he _wasn’t going to die_. 

“Thank you,” Alfred breathed. Pakram nodded and turned away. 

“You will gather what belongings you can carry, but you will leave your boots here with us,” he said. “Now go.”

Alfred returned to Pakram a little while later with the satchel containing his lyre and some clothing. He reluctantly exchanged his winged boots for plain ones. Francis had appeared, and when he was ready, took Alfred aside. 

“I told you that you’d be alright. I’m to take you into the mortal realm,” Francis said. “Arlya and Pakram want you to be in Aenea.”

“No,” Alfred said. 

Francis nodded. “There’s a town called Albion. It borders the mountains and the moors. Aenea has a heavy influence there—which will enough to satisfy the others—but it’s out of force and fear. I think you can find someone to shelter you there.”

Alfred stayed silent, but nodded. Francis put his hand on Alfred’s shoulder and they vanished. 

They landed in the middle of a cobblestone street, lined with little houses with candles glowing in the windows. The air was scented with woodsmoke and summer heat, but Alfred could feel a cool breeze running of the mountains that towered over the town. Night was just beginning to fall, and the shadows of the little houses stretched in the dying light. At the end of the road stood a blocky tower, like those in Drachma. Alfred shuddered at the sight of it. 

“Don’t worry too much,” Francis said, noticing Alfred’s gaze. “It’s mostly empty, except for a few guards who are probably more interested in the taverns than enforcing divine law.”

“I thought you said Aenea had a strong influence here,” Alfred said. 

“Oh, it does, and you must be cautious. All the citizens here pay the gods’ tax, will house any of the clergy who come through, and submit to rigorous inspection multiple times a year,” Francis explained. “That, however, doesn’t mean they are particularly happy about it. ”

“So how do you know I’ll be alright here?” 

Francis kept quiet and walked on. Soon they reached the edge of town, where the moors began and the foothills ended. Out into the open stretched an enormous camp. Tents were pitched, cooking fires were going, and the quiet hum of talking drifted over it all. 

“Who are these people?”

“Refugees,” Francis said. “Southerns, Drachmans mostly, who fled once the city fell under divine occupation. Now Alfred, I must leave you, but you will blend in here well. Albion has sheltered the refugees well, as long as they vanish when its inspection time. Vanish with them and no harm should come to you.”

Without another word, Francis was gone. Alfred turned to ask for him to stay, met only empty air. He looked down the road, which rolled straight before and behind Alfred, until it was lost to the moors and the mountain passes. 

He felt heavy, trapped without his winged boots, but dwelling on it wouldn’t make anything better. He might as well get his bearings the old fashioned way: walking about. 

As it was the middle of summer, many people were out, even though it was well into the evening. Children ran everywhere, while adults milled about, enjoying the falling temperatures. No one looked twice at Alfred. 

There seemed to be little reason to how the village of Albion was laid out. It was nestled right into the foothills of the mountains that held Aenea. Little one story houses were placed like a jigsaw puzzle where the mountainside allowed them. There was no containing wall, unlike Aenea, and no metal barriers to deter Daemons. Only the temple, the towering blight in the middle of town, was made exclusively of metal. 

Everything, from the roads to the houses spoke of comfort, though not wealth. There were no lavish squares or gardens like those of Aenea or Drachma. The houses and people were plain. Nevertheless, Alfred found himself growing comfortable. 

“Hey! You there!” A voice called. Alfred turned. A vaguely familiar looking girl ran up to him. She had short blond hair with a blue ribbon in it and wore a light pink shift. A boy, obviously her brother, ran behind her. She caught up to Alfred. 

“Hello, you’re the boy who helped me find my brother!” she said. That was it—this was the girl Alfred had met at the festival in Aenea and almost sent her to a life of prostitution. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to remember that part. 

“Lily, isn’t it?” Alfred said. 

She nodded, smiling. “You never told me yours.”

“Alfred.”

Her brother finally reached them. 

“You!” he shouted. “How dare you speak to my sister after the trouble you caused her!”

It seemed the young man did remember Alfred’s involvement with his sister’s trouble. 

“Oh, be quiet, Vash,” Lily said, taking her brother’s arm and restraining him. “I was the one who talked to him first. And nothing bad actually happened.” Her brother huffed irritably. 

“So,” Alfred ventured, “you two are still traveling together.”

Vash stood back and crossed his arms, glaring at Alfred. “Of course we are,” he snapped. “It was easy once I was excommunicated for bringing a woman along. Which is your fault.”

“Excommunicated?” Alfred asked, eyes widening. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know when I helped her—“

“Shut it.” He looked away and shrugged. “I don’t really care. The only reason I was there was because they paid well. Other people pay well too.”

“And those other people couldn’t care less about his sister looking after him,” Lily added happily. “So what are you doing in Albion?” she asked. 

Alfred shuffled his feet, trying to find a way to briefly describe it. There was none. “I’m sort of stranded here. It’s a long story,” he muttered. 

“Wonderful,” Lily said, linking arms between Alfred and Vash. “We’re headed to the tavern, we’ll buy you some food and you can regale us with your story.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Vash grumbled. 

Alfred was given no chance to refuse as Lily dragged him through town to a humble tavern, The Sign of the Ripe Tomato. 

 

 

Despite the tavern’s weathered appearance, it was well lit and clean on the inside, and the air was rich with baking bread and stewing meat. Most of the tables and stools at the bar were full with townspeople chattering away good-naturedly.  Vash, Alfred, and Lily shuffled through the tables to several free places at the counter. When they had settled, a handsome barkeeper approached. He was tall, with brown hair, kind eyes, and dark olive skin. From his darker skin and slightly accented voice, it was apparent that he was originally from the southern part of the world. Nevertheless, his smile was quick and he moved with ease amongst the patrons. 

“Hello,” he said, smiling. “Haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new to Albion?”

Alfred and Vash just nodded, while Lily spoke up. “Yes, we just got in today. My brother’s looking for work, and our friend Alfred just showed up too, though he hasn’t told us why yet.” She grinned conspiratorially at the barkeep. “Though it’s supposedly quite a story.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “I’m Antonio, and this is my tavern. Can I get you anything to drink until we can get some food for you?”

“Ale. Biggest flask you’ve got,” Vash muttered. 

Lily gave him a short glare then with a sigh said, “Just some barley water for me.”

The barkeep looked at Alfred expectantly. He had no idea what he was supposed to do, so he just stared at Antonio. With a raised eyebrow, he laughed. 

“Barley water for you too, I think is best,” he said. “I’ll send Feliciano out with those in just a moment.” 

He turned away and disappeared back into the kitchen. 

“So,” Lily said. “You need to tell us about why you’re stranded here. I mean, the pass to Aenea is unpleasant any time of year, but it wouldn’t kill you.”

“What?” Alfred asked blankly. 

Lily curled her feet under the stool and rested her chin on her hand. 

“Are you on the run or something?” she pressed, eyes growing wide. “Is there some reason you’re not allowed back in Aenea?”

“Why would I want to go back to Aenea?” Alfred asked. 

A man—Feliciano—shorter than the barkeep and with auburn hair, left the kitchen and brought them their drinks. 

As he placed the barely waters in front of Alfred, Lily said, “You live there, don’t you?” 

“Oh, no. I never lived there,” Alfred said, shaking his head. “I lived in Caelei.”

The man carrying their drinks tripped and spilled the water and ale everywhere. 

“You lived in Caelei?” he sputtered. “The god realm?”

“Erm, yes,” Alfred said. He took in the dripping wet tavern hand. His brown eyes glittered and an odd little curl on the side his head bobbed in excitement. 

“Then you must have been the human the Lady Arlya took in,” the odd man said. He grabbed Alfred’s hand and shook his entire arm. “I’m so excited to meet you. I have so many questions!” 

At that moment, Antonio returned. He gave an amused sigh.

“Feliciano! Look at this disaster,” he said. With a start, Feliciano seemed to notice the mess he had made. With a swift apology, he ran back into kitchen to get fresh drinks and some rags to clean up the spill. 

“You’ll have to excuse him—he’s easily excited,” Antonio said with an amused shake of his head. “Feliciano always been fascinated by religion—in fact he’s a bit of a scholar when it comes to that subject,” He continued. “Though I fear that is where his intellectual abilities end.”

Alfred nodded along, though he had never really thought about people studying the gods. They were the people he lived with, and he had never considered them to be all that different from the humans he had met. 

Feliciano returned, accompanied by a grumbling man that could only be his brother. He was carrying some bowls of steaming stew while Feliciano carried fresh drinks.

Alfred didn’t speak much as he devoured his meal. His mind was distracted: he had no food, no money, no place to stay. It was the middle of summer, so sleeping outside wouldn’t be that bad now, but if the year wore on and he couldn’t return to Caelei, he would have a problem. 

His worry must have shown on his face, for after their plates were cleared away, Lily nudged his shoulder. 

“Hello, Alfred?” she said. “I thought you had a story to tell.”

“Yes. Right. It’s complicated. I have no idea where to even begin,” he said. 

“Seems simple enough to me,” Vash said. “You said that you’re stuck here so you must have done something to get yourself kicked out of Caelei. Must have been something foolish.”

Lily frowned at her brother, then began to apologize for his behavior. Alfred interrupted her. They were paying for his meal, he might as well humor them. 

“You’re right, actually,” he said. “It was incredibly foolish. How much do you know about the war?”

“Gods tend to pay better than daemons,” Vash said. 

Lily look at Alfred expectantly. Alfred took a sip of his water and began telling the tale of Drachma, the battle there, and how he had committed treason to save Arthur. 

When he had finished, the pub had grown quiet, and most of the patrons were listening to Alfred’s story, including the serving boy, Feliciano, who took his evening break close to them. 

Alfred looked around the quiet room, uncomfortable with the attention. Finally, Antonio broke the silence. His voice was still cheerful, but Alfred noticed a slight tremor in it his voice. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know where the fighting took place in? In Drachma?” he said. 

Alfred thought for a moment. “I couldn’t see all of it, but the city was in turmoil all over.”

Antonio’s face paled a little under his olive complexion. Feliciano’s brother glared at Alfred and elbowed the tavern keeper. 

“They’re fine, asshole,” he said quietly to Antonio. “Now go stir the soup. I won’t explain to customers why their food is burned.”

Antonio gave a small nod and did as he was told. The man continued to glare at Alfred. Feliciano noticed and said, “Lovino, it’s not his fault. Stop.”

“According to him, it could have been. We haven’t heard from anyone in weeks and it’s summer.”

“And according to him Elizaveta was there. She looks after us.”

“The anima is only one being,” Lovino said, but backed down. He turned and followed Antonio into the tavern’s kitchen. 

“Please excuse my brother,” Feliciano said. “It’s been a hard change for him and Antonio since we left Drachma ourselves.”

Alfred leaned closer, curiosity piqued. “You’re from Drachma?”

“Oh, yes!” Feliciano said. “Born and raised in East Water. We came here about five years ago.”

“Was that before or after Aenea started its occupation?” Alfred asked. 

“After, technically, Aenea has been in Drachma for almost twenty years now, but it wasn’t really noticeable until the war restarted. Just temples being built and bigger festivals for the solstice.”

“So if you left before that, what made you leave?”

Feliciano rubbed the back of his neck and reddened a little. 

“That was because of me. I’m a bit of a religious scholar, and so I spent a lot of time around the temples. I even worked in Drachma’s holy library for a time. Made a trip twice a year to visit the Great Holy Library in Aenea to continue my studies.”

“So it sounds like you wouldn’t mind the occupation, if you worked for the gods,” Alfred said, a little confused. 

“Oh,” Feliciano laughed, “I worked for them, I was fascinated by them, I dare say I loved them. But I never worshiped them. I was just as interested in daemon lore. And that is why my brother and I are here.”

“You did something stupid,” Vash said. 

“So Lovino tells me,” Feliciano said with a smile. 

“You’re not one to talk,” Lily said pointedly to her brother.

Alfred looked around at them all. They were relaxed, body positions loose as they sipped at drinks and picked at the remains of dinner. It was a picture completely alien to him, but he found himself liking it anyways. 

“So what happened?” Alfred asked. 

“Have you ever heard of the being the gods call She Who Sleeps Below?”

Alfred frowned. He swore he had never heard that name before, but nevertheless, as Feliciano said it, Alfred felt the hairs on his arms prickle. 

“She sounds creepy,” he said. 

Feliciano chuckled. “It does indeed have an ominous ring to it, doesn’t it. And for good reason. The gods fear her.”

Alfred looked at Feliciano with raised eyebrows. “The gods don’t fear anything, not even daemons.”

“They certainly seem to not,” Feliciano said. “But I found evidence otherwise in the old library at Drachma. Their collection contains all sorts of texts, many that I was surprised to find—books by daemon worshippers, apostates, heretics. In a few, She Who Sleeps Below was mentioned. Naturally, I was intrigued. So I took my research to the library in Aenea.”

By this time, most of the bar had gone back to their business, apparently having heard the story many times before. 

“That seems an odd place to look,” Alfred said. He took a sip of his drink. “Why would you look in the Holy Library for something the gods fear?”

Vash sighed and rolled his eyes, cutting off Feliciano. “It’s the best place to keep something the gods don’t want anyone else to know about.”

Alfred stared at him, very confused. Vash continued, “Knowledge is power, and so it’s in the gods’ best interest to keep a close hold on anything that could threaten them.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Alfred said. “Why don’t they just destroy it?”

“Two reasons,” said Vash, holding up two fingers. “One, anything stored in the library is not in the hands of people who could use it against them. Two, if you know what the enemy knows, you are at an advantage. Basic tactics.” 

“Alright,” Alfred said, nodding. He looked at Feliciano. “So you went to Aenea…”

“Yes, and in searching around the deep levels of the library I turned up a little more. But then, when I began requesting access to some of the restricted archives, the First Librarian threw me out and banned me from the premises. Of course, first she interrogated me and then I swore never to reveal what I knew. It was only a little while later that the library in Drachma was sacked,” he said sadly. “Lovino was worried for our safety, and so my brother and I came north as refugees.”

“And so you just told a room full of people,” Lily said.

Feliciano’s eyes widened and his face fell. “I did it again, didn’t I?”

Just then, Lovino emerged from the kitchen. He took one look at Feliciano and started turning red. “You told them, didn’t you? You told yet _another_ group of total strangers how you betrayed the gods? We have a life here, brother, do you want to ruin it?”

Feliciano’s eyes blurred with tears. “Of course not, Lovino. I… I just forgot.”

“You idiot,” Lovino said, swatting Feliciano with a dish rag. “One day, if you don’t keep your damned mouth shut, a disciple will hear you and have you hanged for treason against the gods.” Despite his harsh words, Lovino seemed more exasperated and worried than truly angry. “Antonio and I can only cover you so much, Brother.”

“I’m sorry, Lovino,” Feliciano mumbled. “It won’t happen again.”

He flinched as Lovino whacked him with the dish rag once more and stormed off. 

The group gathered around sat in an awkward silence, which Vash finally broke.

“So, Feliciano, do you have rooms?”

Feliciano perked back up. “Of course we do! The finest rooms you’ll find in all the North.” He continued on, listing the prices of the rooms at the inn. Vash and Lily took up one of the nicer rooms, and Feliciano went back to get Antonio to get them settled. When he returned he looked expectantly at Alfred. 

“Which room do you want?” Feliciano asked. 

The back of Alfred’s neck heated as he realized he didn’t actually have any money. 

“Er,” he said, shuffling in his chair, “I don’t actually have anything to pay with.”

“Oh,” Feliciano said, frowning. 

“I don’t suppose…?” Alfred hedged.

Feliciano shook his head. “We can’t just give out rooms. But you are the ward of Arlya, and you have so much you can tell me. I will speak to Antonio. Perhaps we will figure something out,” he said hopefully. 

In a few moments, Antonio returned and Feliciano waved him over. 

“We have a bit of a problem,” Feliciano said, and explain Alfred’s predicament to the innkeeper. Antonio thought for a while, looking intently at Alfred. 

“I can’t let you have a room for free,” he said sadly. “There are too many refugees for me to offer just one a roof to stay under. Do you have any talents? Any skills I could make use of?”

“I can play the lyre,” Alfred said, “But that’s about my only talent.”

“Can you read?” 

“Of course.”

“How about your numbers?”

“Good. I’m probably a bit rusty but Kiku said I had a knack for them.”

Antonio rubbed at his chin. “That’s something, anyhow. I don’t know—“

Feliciano interrupted him. “I’ll cover the rest,” he blurted out. Antonio stared at him for a moment. 

“You are not exactly a wealthy man, Feliciano,” Antonio said. 

“No, but Alfred has lived with the gods them selves.” He turned to Alfred. “Think of it as payment for your knowledge.”

Alfred blinked in surprised. “I couldn’t…”  

Antonio nodded at Feliciano. “If that is what you want.” He wandered away and returned a few moments later with a large piece of parchment, and a quill. Together, the three of them worked out schedule that would allow Alfred to help Antonio keep track of money and entertain patrons several evenings a week for room and board. It wasn’t quite enough to cover the cost of everything, but Feliciano swore to cover the rest. 

When they were done, Alfred was led up to his new room. It was small and tidy. The bed was not as big as the one he slept in at Caelei, but it was soft. In the corner there was a small desk and candlestick. A wardrobe stood by the bed, though Alfred had very little to put inside it. With an enormous yawn, he fell onto the bed and was asleep within moments.


	15. The Tower

As the days, passed, Alfred fell into a new rhythm or life. He woke up when the smell of breakfast made its way up into his small room. After a few moments of blearily blinking, he dressed, splashed some cool water from a small bucket on his face. 

Downstairs, in the common room, he would eat breakfast with Feliciano, who pestered him mercilessly for every detail on his life with the gods. When Feliciano was called back to work, Alfred would either sit and talk with Antonio or wander around Albion. He stayed quiet for the most part, as Francis had suggested, but he found it hard not to ask questions about everything that went on. 

He indulged himself a few times and learned what a well was and how to pump water from it, how to spin wool into yarn, and how to milk a goat. Despite his odd requests, the villagers seemed willing to show him, and expressed gratitude for any help he gave. It made him happy in a way he had never felt before. Sure, he missed flying. But there was different pleasure in drinking the creamy, fresh goat milk that couldn’t be gained from using a magical present. 

In the afternoons, he helped Antonio handle the money. Antonio was a kind man, and a good innkeeper, but he often had trouble staying focused. With Alfred there, they managed to keep mostly on task. 

After dinner, Alfred played in the common room. He had never played so much, even when Francis was giving him lessons every day. He found himself improving faster than he ever had before. The people who frequented the common room enjoyed his playing and were never critical. Alfred even found that later in the evening, when the patrons had all had a few drinks, he could experiment and no one minded the odd discordant note. Except Lovino. But try as he might, Alfred could not get Feliciano’s brother to like him. 

This pattern had gone on for just under a fortnight when it was time for Alfred to visit Arthur again. He had explained his odd friendship with the daemon to Feliciano, who in turn told every one else who would listen. 

As the sun began to set, Alfred set out for the moors with his lyre and a gift of bread and meat from Antonio. The town faded behind him as the grassy hills spilled out ahead. The ground was springy and muddy from last night’s rain, though the evening sky promised to be clear. 

Alfred walked up to the top of a nearby hill, growing frustrated by how slowly he moved. There was a warm breeze from the south, and Alfred longed to fly up into the darkening sky. He sighed as he trudged along the ground, wondering when Arthur would show up. 

Worry started to prickle in the back of his mind as the sun sank below the western hills. Arthur should have appeared by now. He bit his lip. The last time he had seen Arthur was at Drachma, where he was wounded. Was he okay? Elizaveta had gone with him, but what if he was lying somewhere in the moors, alone and bleeding out?

Alfred broke into a run and shouted Arthur’s name into the empty moor. If only he could fly. He could cover more ground and find his injured friend. 

Images flashed through his mind as he ran. Arthur bleeding under some overhang. Arthur gasping for breath on the marshy ground. He was so preoccupied with his imagination that he didn’t see the large patch of heather until he slipped on it. He landed with a thud.  

There was a dry laugh from above him. Alfred scrambled to his feet and found Arthur staring at him his face trying to decide whether it was amused or exasperated. Without a second thought, Alfred launch himself at Arthur and hugged him tightly.

“You’re alright!” he shouted. 

Arthur squawked with surprise and tried to wiggle free.

“Let me go, you idiot. That hurts!”

Alfred let go quickly and looked Arthur over. He still moved stiffly, and he looked tired.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Alfred asked. “You look terrible.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Well two weeks ago I was almost killed by a raving war goddess and then an idiotic human with no sense flew into me at top speed. So I think I have earned the right to look a little under the weather.”

Alfred stared at the ground. “I though you were dying out there somewhere,” he mumbled. 

Arthur’s expression softened for a moment. He looked away and frowned. “I’m a high daemon, Alfred. I’m rather hard to kill,” he said, and hesitated before continuing. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. Or ever. I thought you’d have been killed for treason.”

“Oh,” Alfred said. “Well, they didn’t.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Obviously. But come, if you’re here you might as well play for me. I’ll get a fire going.”

Arthur set about getting a fire going while Alfred set out the food Antonio had given him and got his lyre ready. He played a couple of scales to warm up, and then when the fire was bright, he began playing in earnest. Arthur closed his eyes, visibly relaxing. A small smile appeared on his face. 

Purple evening faded to true night, and the stars came out in force. After a while, Alfred paused and looked up at the with longing. Arthur broke the silence. 

“You’ve gotten better since last time,” he said, nodding towards Alfred’s lyre. 

Alfred grinned. “You think so?” he said. “I’ve been playing a lot recently. For Antonio.” He described his arrangement with the innkeeper. Arthur nodded along. 

“Antonio is a good man,” he said, taking a bite of the bread. “He would take in all the refugees if he could. I’m sure tried and someone had to stop him.”

Alfred chuckled. He could imagine that clearly. He chewed on some bread and meat, looking at the mass of stars. After a while, he found his voice and asked, “Could you tell me another one?”

Arthur frowned and then looked up. “Another constellation?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you have played enough for now,” Arthur said. He studied the sky. After a moment, he pointed to the west. 

“The Tower,” he said. Alfred leaned close to him so he could follow Arthur’s pointing. He pointed out a set of six bright stars which made a sort of upside down T. “It’s one of the most important constellations to travelers.” He moved his finder along the line middle stars made, up until he pointed at a small blue star. “It points directly at the North Star, which is otherwise hard to spot.”

Alfred nodded and found stared at the constellation. At least this one looked more like a tower than the last one had looked like a rabbit. He thought he would be able to locate it in the future. 

“Does this one have a story too?” he asked. 

Arthur nodded. “It’s a very old story, and told all over the world. But it came from here. In the north.” He paused. “It’s not a happy one.”

“Tell me?” Alfred asked. Arthur nodded, staring into the fire. He was quiet for a few moments and the breathed deeply. When his spoke, his voice was soft and his words fell in a steady rhythm like a summer rainstorm. 

“A long time ago, when the land was young, and the gods had only just stepped into the world, there was a kingdom called Lemuria on the north sea. 

“Now, Lemuria was a prosperous kingdom, and was ruled over by a compassionate king and a just queen. Of all the joys in their lives—hardworking subjects, loyal nobles, full coffers, overflowing granaries—their greatest was their daughter, whom they called Elaine. 

“Eliane was a bright, but fragile child. Of good humor but often sickly. She delighted and worried the court in equal measures, for it would be tragic if the princess never lived to be crowned queen. Despite the best medicine and care the kingdom could provide, one day Elaine became sick with a fever. She burned beneath her blankets and cried out in her delirium. 

“Fearing the worst, the king and queen called in the palace’s priest, who would ask the gods to spare their daughter. The priest stayed by her side for three days and three nights, silent and eating only a little. 

“Just as the kingdom’s hope was fading, the king and queen were summoned by the priest. As the entered the room, a god they had never seen stood there, waiting. 

“The god looked up at them, but his eyes were white and sightless. When he spoke, it was hardly a whisper.

“‘Come when your hope is dying to offer some respite,’ he croaked. ‘I am Circalous, the god of prophecy, and I have seen the fate of your child. Away with your fear, for within this tower she will always be safe. But I come to not restore your hope but to give you a warning. Your daughters fate exists within the tower. Should she leave it, she will die.’ Without another word, he vanished. As the god had predicted, Elaine’s fever broke soon after. 

“As she grew older she left her sickliness behind. She proved a quick study and both her parents were sure she would lead Lemuria through prosperity. 

“Despite Elaine’s return of health and the promise she showed, the king and queen still worried. And so, on her fourteenth birthday, they took her aside to explain what the god had told them of her fate. She nodded gravely, thanked her parents for explaining, and the kingdom went on with its business.

“Elaine took her limitations with grace. The tower was vast, and she never had a dearth of visitors. The kingdom was happy. 

“The sickness started on the queens sixteenth birthday. It started with reports of peasants and the rural landowners growing sick seemingly overnight, then people in the city. Soon even nobles were succumbing. The king and queen cared deeply for all their subjects and went out to help take food, water and medicine to those in need.

“Princess Elaine watched them leave, and for once, it was she who worried. Oh, how she wanted to follow them to her people. For a while, she received letters from the king and queen. They seemed in good health, and they provided counsel to their daughter who ruled in their absence. 

“But one day, as Elaine feared, the letters stopped coming. She waited for weeks for any word of the king and queen. Finally, one day, a lonely man on a lonely horse rode into the tower courtyard. Elaine greeted him at the door, for he was an old friend of her parents. 

“He bowed his head. ‘Elaine,’ he said sadly, but she raised her hand and silenced him. 

“‘They are gone, aren’t they.’

“The man nodded. Elaine bowed her head in grief. 

“‘The kingdom is lost,’ the man said. ‘Our only hope is to wait until the sickness wanes.’

“Elaine nodded. For awhile, nobles and surviving subjects went too and from the tower for grain, water, and to give Elaine what company they could. But as the year wore on, fewer and fewer people, regardless of rank appeared. Eventually, Elaine was left alone in the tower. 

“Despite her history of illness, the god’s words held true. Elaine never caught the mysterious disease that destroyed her kingdom. So she sat in her tower and watched the seasons pass. She watched snow cover the tower courtyard. She watched the first buds of spring peak through. 

“It’s unclear how long she stayed in the tower. Some say it was until the anniversary of the king and queens death, others say she lingered for years. But one day, she turned from the window. She walked, her footsteps echoing through the empty tower until she reached the gate she watched the king and queen disappear out of. She stepped onto the slight rise of the threshold and paused, looking at the sun. 

“And she left the tower,” Arthur concluded. 

Alfred sat in silence for a moment. When it became clear that Arthur wasn’t going to say anymore, he said, “And then what?”

Arthur frowned at him, then looked into the dying fire. His face glowed in the red of the embers. His eyes focused on something far away. 

“She died,” he said simply. 

Alfred stared at Arthur for a moment, as if still waiting. When the words finally registered, Alfred frowned and said, “No. That can’t be the end.”

Arthur glared. “It is,” he said stubbornly. 

Alfred stood and crossed his arms, glaring back at Arthur. “Well,” he said. “How did she die? Did she die immediately? Did she get sick? Did she just drop dead?”

Arthur turned away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Alfred’s face flushed red and angry heat prickled on his neck. “Doesn’t matter?” he shouted. “Of course it matters! What happened to Elaine? Why couldn’t she leave? It doesn’t make any sense. The sickness had probably passed. She wasn’t cursed or anything. She should have been able to leave! It’s not fair!”

Arthur waited for Alfred to finish shouting. When he seemed to have calmed a little, Arhtur said, “It doesn’t matter because that’s not the point of the story.”

“Then what is the point?” Alfred demanded.

Arthur’s eyes snapped up to Alfred’s, glinting with impatience. “Well, it’s a story,” he said. “It didn’t actually happen. There was no Princess Elaine, or if there was, she died with the sickness. The point is what the story says about life.”

“And what does it say? That princesses are going to die if they leave their tower?”

“No,” Arthur snapped. “You’re thinking far too literally. It means a couple things. That there are fates worse than death, like like being trapped and alone. Also it stresses that fate cannot be denied.”

“I don’t like it,” Alfred said. “Why couldn’t she leave?”

“It was her fate to die when she left the tower,” Arthur repeated. 

“But _why_?”

Arthur shrugged. “It’s a common theme in old stories—The Hawk and the Harpist, The Two Lovers, The Lonely Queen—fate is a fact of life, just as the seasons or night and day. It doesn’t matter why, just that it _is_.”

Alfred threw himself on the ground and glowered at the fire. “I’ll make up a different ending,” he said. He cleared his throat. “She stepped out of the tower and journeyed far and wide, living happily ever after.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment, then he made a gagging noise. “That’s a terrible ending,” he said. 

“Better than yours. It has a happy ending.”

“Not all stories should have a happy ending,” Arthur said. 

“Why not? I like happy endings,” Alfred said. 

“Because life doesn’t always have happy endings."

“Maybe if we kept trying hard enough—“

Arthur held up a hand. He looked at Alfred with something like pity. “Enough,” he said. “I do not wish to argue any more.”

They sat in silence for a long while. Arthur stirred the coals back to life. The firelight cast eerie shadows around them, flashes of yellow and orange licking through the darkness around them. The wind shifted, bringing a slight chill. 

Alfred looked out over the moors. He couldn’t make out the geography anymore, just dark hills that seemed to be shifting in the fickle fire light. He hugged himself, trying to free his mind from the story Arthur had told him. Elaine’s face, which Alfred had so vividly imagined, stared at him through glassy, dead eyes as she collapsed inexplicably one step outside the tower. 

Alfred was distracted by a hand on his shoulder. Arthur offered him some bread, and bade him play more music. Out of obstinacy, Alfred chose the happiest stories he could, and knew many. If he noticed, though, Arthur didn’t say anything. 

Eventually, Alfred began to yawn. He got to his feet and started packing up his lyre. 

“Are you going somewhere?” Arthur asked. 

“Yeah.”

“You usually sleep outside when you come to play for me.”

“I know,” Alfred said. “But I’ve got a bed waiting at Antonio’s. So why sleep out?”

Arthur nodded. He rose beside Alfred and shuffled awkwardly for a moment. Alfred didn’t notice. Finally he spoke. 

“It’s rather dark.”

“Yeah,” Alfred said absently.

“I don’t suppose you want help getting back?” Arthur said. 

Alfred shrugged. “I could probably get back by myself.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?” he asked with a small smile. “If I recall you can barely find your way out of a hole. Even if you had a map.”

Alfred gave an irritated snort and was about to protest when he paused. Then, looking at the ground he gave a small chuckle.

“You’ve got a point,” he said, and then started laughing in earnest. “Lead the way.”

The two walked along companionably, chatting mostly about Albion and the people in it. Arthur was well acquainted with Antonio, but he didn’t know Feliciano or Lovino. 

“So they came with Antonio from Drachma?” Arthur asked. 

“Sort of the the other way around,” Alfred said. “Antonio came with them when Lovino and Feliciano had to leave.”

Alfred stopped for a moment, lost in thought. Arthur halted, waiting. After a moment, Alfred spoke. 

“Feliciano was banished for his interest in a being called She Who Sleeps Below,” Alfred began. Arthur frowned. 

“Do you know anything about her?” Alfred asked. When Arthur didn’t answer, he pressed. “Feliciano said that the daemons know her as Mother.”

Arthur went rigid. His face was masked by darkness so Alfred could not read his expression. 

They stood in silence for a long moment, until finally Arthur spoke.

“Do not ask me about her. Ever,” he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. “Albion is visible from the top of the hill. You won’t get lost now.”

Alfred blinked in confusion, but Arthur was already gone. 

“Arthur?” Alfred called into the night. He got no reply. 

As Arthur had promised, soon the shadows of Albion appeared, revealed by the faint light coming from Antonio’s tavern. He made his way back, much more slowly now that he lacked Arthur’s guidance. As he stumbled, he worried about his friend. He couldn’t tell if he was angry, scared, or sad, but he wished he had never mentioned She Who Sleeps Below. 


	16. The Inquisitor

Alfred was surprised when summer started to fade. The wind off the mountains gained a bite, and the lower trees started to turn orange around the edges. In the mornings, when Alfred wandered about Albion, he could see his breath puff. Antonio and Feliciano had helped him procure some warmer clothes, but even so, he didn’t like the cold. There were other things about the coming autumn that he did like, however. The foods Antonio and Lovino prepared changed, and became hardier. Alfred ate an apple and drank apple cider for the first time. 

It felt like he had been in Albion for his whole life sometimes, but at others he felt as if Francis had just dropped him off. He wondered how the god was doing. What was going on in Caelei? Albion was rather secluded so news from the world didn’t travel quickly. Was the Daemon War still waging?

He wanted to ask Arthur, but Alfred hadn’t seen him since he had stormed off when he mentioned She Who Sleeps Below. It had been many fortnights, and on the right day, Alfred dutifully went looking for the daemon. Arthur remained elusive. 

It bothered Alfred in a way that was hard to put his finger on. He missed playing for Arthur, he wanted Arthur to keep him updated on the war, and he also wanted to learn more constellations. But there was something more that he missed. He missed the idle talk and the companionable silences as they shared food.

When Arthur hadn’t appeared at the usual time the first time, Alfred had looked for him all night, only giving up when the sun peaked over the horizon. The next fortnight, he took Feliciano with him, and once again they wandered about the moors looking for the missing daemon. Even after Alfred realized there was no point in looking, he would venture out at the usual time. 

It was the afternoon before yet another excursion into the moors when the stranger arrived. He was tall, with short, cleanly cut blond hair. His eyes were a cold blue and he didn’t seem to know how to smile. Alfred noticed him as he wandered around Albion in the morning. To his surprise, Feliciano walked behind him, struggling slightly to keep up, but he was chattering happily. 

When Feliciano noticed Alfred, he grabbed the man by the arm. The man protested, but Feliciano dragged him over to Alfred. 

“Alfred!” Feliciano called. “I have someone you should meet!”

Alfred held out his hand in greeting. The man didn’t seem enthused to take it, but he shook hands stiffly. 

“Uh,” Alfred said, “Who is this, Feliciano?”

“This is Ludwig!” Feliciano said happily and hugged Ludwig’s arm. Ludwig looked very uncomfortable with the affection. “He saved me from a big scary monster! I think it might have been a low daemon.”

Ludwig ears started to redden. “I already told you,” he said awkwardly. “It wasn’t a daemon. Just a goat.”

Feliciano didn’t appear to be listening though. Without letting go of Ludwig, he took a hold of Alfred and started pulling them back towards the inn. Along the way, he retold what had happened. Or at least what he thought had happened. 

“Antonio had sent me to the market for some flour and cheese, but along the way I was attacked!” he said, still trying to gesture even though he held onto both Ludwig and Alfred. 

“I was almost there when I heard a horrible sound and a giant shadowy figure approached me!” He continued on, describing how what he said was a low daemon had chased him up the tree where he cowered until Ludwig came along and saved him. Ludwig muttered that it wasn’t a daemon, just a grumpy goat, but Feliciano didn’t seem to notice. 

When they reached the inn, Feliciano finally let go of them. Ludwig stood awkwardly in the door, and the few patrons in the common room glared at him. Alfred wasn’t sure why. 

A few moments later, Feliciano returned with Antonio, who frowned at Ludwig. He nodded in welcome, but narrowed his eyes. 

“Welcome, Inquisitor,” he said stiffly. Ludwig shuffled awkwardly. The frowns around the tavern deepened to glares. 

“Thank you,” Ludwig said. “I am Ludwig. I am from Aenea, and I am to prepare the town for the rest of the Inquisition.”

Feliciano’s eyes widened and he looked nervously between Ludwig and Alfred. 

“I suppose it is that time or year again,” Antonio said. “Have you chosen where you will stay?”

A quiet but harsh grumbling broke out in the common room. Apparently this was a source of irritation to the towns people. Ludwig glanced around nervously and then placed several coins on the counter between him and Antonio. 

“I have always been fond of inns,” he said. “They have the best beer. How much is a room?”

Antonio’s frown deepened, but this time in confusion. He gave the price, took Ludwig’s money, and had Feliciano lead him up to a spare room. 

As he left, Alfred came up to Antonio. 

“How strange,” Antonio said. 

“What?” said Alfred.

“Inquisitors can invoke the right to shelter anywhere. He could stay with anyone in the town, and they would be obligated to board him.”

“Well he did say inns have the best beer.”

Antonio shrugged. “That doesn’t really have to do with anything. But it is a kind gesture to the town, to not impose and to pay, upfront no less, for accommodation.”

“Feliciano likes him,” Alfred said.

Antonio shook his head and laughed. “Feliciano likes everyone,” he said.

“Sure, but have you seen him? It’s like he’s imprinted.”

Antonio frowned. “That man is not someone Feliciano should be spending a lot of time with. He’s dangerous to Feliciano, if he figures out who Feliciano and how widely he’s spread what he knows…”

At that moment, Feliciano returned. He rushed over to Alfred and Antonio and began talking excitedly. 

“Antonio,” he said, “Do you know anything about Ludwig? He seems so brave and so nice. He was nice to me! I wonder where he’s from.”

Antonio glanced at Alfred, a look of near panic crossing his face. “Feliciano,” he said, trying to sound calming, “Have you told him anything?”

“Of course!” Feliciano said with confusion. “It would have been rude not to. I told him my name and I told him about the tavern.”

Sighing with relief, Antonio turned away. Then Feliciano spoke up again. 

“He asked where I was from, and so I told him all about Drachma. He said he’d never been there before. And he was very interested in Alfred. Seemed like he wanted to be friends with all of us!” 

Antonio slapped his forehead. Slowly, as if explaining to a child, Antonio said, “Feliciano, Ludwig is from Aenea. I’m not sure which god he serves, but he is a dedicate.”

Feliciano frowned. “I don’t understand. Why does that mean I shouldn’t be friendly?”

“Because he’s the sort of person who is going to report you for spreading tales. He’s someone who might take Alfred back to Aenea. Feliciano, he is not your friend.”

“He saved me,” Feliciano insisted. “He is definitely my friend. And he is nice to me and listens to me. He’s not bad.”

As they were arguing, Ludwig came down the stairs. Antonio saw him and went silent, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously. Alfred was inclined to agree with Antonio. Aenean dedicates seemed to be trouble. Feliciano, whether in rebellion or just excitement, ran up to Ludwig and began babbling at him, asking how the room was, and if he would like some lunch. 

Ludwig noticed the hostile glares even if Feliciano ignored him. He frowned and let Feliciano lead him to the bar. Alfred stiffened when Ludwig’s eyes fell on him. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Ludwig said. “Though Feliciano has told me about you.”

“I’m not going to Aenea,” Alfred said flatly. “There’s nothing you can do, short of drugging me and dragging me there.”

“I don’t know why you are so hostile,” Ludwig said. “You would be treated well in Aenea. An honored guest. The Arlyan dedicates would take your happiness very seriously.”

“I’m happy here.”

Ludwig frowned, then shrugged. “I suppose there is no use arguing about it now. You may be taken there regardless when the rest of the inquisition comes.”

“Are you threatening me?” Alfred said through clenched teeth.

“No,” Ludwig said. “I am just informing you of a likely outcome.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment, tense. Finally Ludwig broke eye contact and sat down at the counter next to Feliciano, who looked worriedly between them. 

With a huff, Alfred left the inn and wandered into Albion. As he reached the edge where the refugee encampment was he stopped, startled. There was more activity than he had ever seen. People were hastily packing up, and bands of them were headed out into the moors. 

Alfred stopped and asked a woman what was going on. 

“That Aenean arrived this morning. The rest of the Inquisition will be here shortly, and they will punish Albion for sheltering us. The town does what it can for us, and in return, we will hide until they leave.”

She waved Alfred away impatiently and hurried on her way. Within an hour, the whole encampment had vanished, leaving hardly a trace behind. 

Alfred lingered, until his stomach demanded lunch. He made his way back to the tavern, and was irritated to find that Ludwig was still there. The common room had emptied since Ludwig’s arrival, and so only Ludwig, Feliciano, Antonio, and Lovino were present. As Alfred entered, Antonio disappeared for a moment before returning with some water and lunch meat. 

It would have been an awkward silence if Feliciano hadn’t been babbling away at Ludwig the whole time. As it was, it was just awkward. 

Eventually Antonio asked Ludwig a few stiff questions. 

“If you are a part of the inquisition, that must mean you are dedicated to one of the gods,” he said. Ludwig nodded.

“Yes, I have served Gilbert since I came of age.”

Alfred laughed a little. Ludwig glared. “Does something amuse you?”

“Why do you serve Gilbert?” Alfred asked. “He’s a ass.”dqqa  
Ludwig stared at Alfred. He looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to be stunned or offended. When he spoke again, it was unsure and halting. 

“My family has always served him. My ancestors hunted in mountains long before Aenea was built. So that’s the way it has always been.”qaqwdd“I don’t get it. Why would you work with someone that self-satisfied?”  
sLudwig twisted, as if to slap Alfred. At the last second he stopped himself. He dropped his hands, clenching them into fists. 

“I have never personally met him, but Gilbert has protected and given my family patronage for generations. I find it a great honor to serve him in return.”

“You’ve never met him?” Alfred asked, surprised.

Ludwig shook his head slightly and sighed. “I have seen him at festivals and ceremonies, but no, I have never met him. That’s not unusual for someone of my standing.”

Alfred started to ask another question when Ludwig cut him off irritably. 

“You seem to lack the comprehension that the Gilbert is a god. He does not commune with common folk like daemons or his more…vulgar…counterparts.”

Alfred bristled at that less comment, but Feliciano stepped between them. 

“Alfred,” he said. “Ludwig is a from a line of hunters, who are recognized by Gilbert himself. I thought he could help us look for Arthur tonight!”

Both Ludwig and Alfred stared at Feliciano in silence. 

“I can’t take him!” Alfred said, voice rising. “He might turn on us or kill us or capture us!”

Ludwig studied Feliciano for a moment. Then a ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I think our friend has a point,” he said. “If you need to find someone, there is no one in town better suited to find them than I.”

Alfred laughed harshly. “There’s no way we’re taking you.”

Ludwig’s smile grew. “A shame then,” he said, glancing over to where Antonio and Lovino watched them. “I suppose I will have to inform the inquisition of this inn’s unwillingness to comply with Aenea’s requests. And that would be so unfortunate for an otherwise pleasant inn.”

Alfred was about to argue when Antonio, an unusual note of distress in his voice shouted, “Take him, Alfred.”

Looking over, Alfred wanted to protest, but the force with which Antonio glared at him made him falter. 

“Fine,” Alfred said in defeat. Feliciano yelped in happiness, oblivious to the tension in the room. 

When the sun began to set, the three men set out. As they passed the edges of town, Alfred noticed Ludwig studying the area the refugees had abandoned earlier that day. It was impossible to leave no trace of the encampment, but it was hard to tell for anyone who wasn’t looking. Unfortunately, Ludwig was looking. Alfred waited, ready to protect the refugees, but Ludwig remained quiet. 

Albion soon vanished into the hills behind them. Alfred stared at the pink tinged sky with longing, missing his boots. It didn’t seem to matter how long he went without, he couldn’t shake the impulse to hop into the air. With a sigh, he turned in the still evening to see what Ludwig and Feliciano were doing. Ludwig seemed to be studying their surroundings while Feliciano seemed only interested in studying Ludwig. 

Once he noticed Alfred watching him, he said, “This will be difficult, even as daemon tracking goes. It doesn’t seem like your friend has been around lately.”

“How can you tell?” Alfred asked. 

“It’s hard to explain,” Ludwig said. “Wherever they go in their territory, they leave sort of a liveliness behind. The grass is greener, the heather bouncier, the brambles more prickly.”

“I didn’t know that,” Alfred said. 

“Not many do, except those from the old hunting families.”

Alfred didn’t know what to say, so he stayed quiet. The evening darkened, and the wind from the mountains turned biting. Alfred pulled his cloak close, shivering. 

“Where are the daemon’s usual haunts?” Ludwig asked. He if he was bothered by the cold, he didn’t show it, though he kept glancing at Feliciano, who shivered like a leaf. 

“Why do you want to find him?” Alfred asked. 

“I am just offering my services as a hunter,” Ludwig said with a dark chuckle. 

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It is not my job to convince you. But it would be a shame for the inquisition to hear of you being uncooperative,” he said. 

“How long are you going to hold that over us?” Alfred asked. 

“As long as it works.”

Feliciano tripped behind them. Ludwig turned and helped him up, and Feliciano beamed at him. Ludwig smiled awkwardly back at him. 

“Be careful,” he said. 

Feliciano rubbed at his nose and gave another shiver. “I will try to be. I always forget how cold it gets here. Nothing like Drachma.”

Alfred motioned towards a dip in the shadowy landscape ahead. “We could stop for a bit,” he suggested. “I’ve got some bread, and we’ll be out of the wind.”

Feliciano cheered and ran down to their resting place. When Ludwig made to follow, Alfred caught him by the arm. “I’m not an idiot. I want you to stop manipulating Feliciano. He might not see what you are, but I do.”

Ludwig watched Alfred for a moment. “I do not know what your mind has cooked up, but I do not mean you nor anyone harm.”

“Then leave Feliciano alone.”

“You are mistaken. It is he who won’t leave me alone. You seem determined to think my every action as a threat.”

“You blackmailed Antonio to come with us tonight,” said Alfred

“It seemed like an interesting outing. I also pay for my room at his inn, rather than imposing upon the town,” Ludwig said.

“Then why do you want to find Arthur?”

“Any information about the daemon is useful to my order.”

“Fine,” Alfred said in frustration, throwing up his arms. “Just don’t hurt anyone.”

When they caught up to Feliciano, they found him holding some bread and frowning into the distance. 

“Does the moon look red to you?” he asked. 

Alfred looked up. To his surprise, it did. He had never seen anything that before. Though the moon offered little enough light on a good night, what moonlight there was noticeably dimmed and reddened. Alfred watched the sight for awhile. Even as the moon rose, a dull glow remained on the edge of the horizon. 

Ludwig must have noticed it too, because he swore under his breath. 

“There’s a fire,” he, worried. “A big one.”

Feliciano looked up at Ludwig. “But there are no towns out there.”

Alfred caught Feliciano’s eyes and both pairs widened. 

“The southerners,” they both said.

Ludwig put his hand Feliciano’s shoulder. “So there are people out there?”

Feliciano nodded. 

“Then we better hurry,” Ludwig said. The three of them made their way as quickly as they could towards the ever brightening glow.


	17. Daemon Magic

As the little group crested a hill, they saw the destruction before them. The refugees had stopped in a little valley between two grassy hills, and now the valley blazed. Alfred gasped as a rocket of flame shot up into the air, eating away at the remains of a wooden wagon. The heat was incredible, especially after the chilly night. Beads of sweat trickled through Alfred’s hair. 

 

He was knocked to the side as Ludwig rushed past him, down into the burning valley. Alfred called after him, but as he opened his mouth, smoke flooded in. He coughed and sank to the ground. He found Feliciano there, trembling in terror. 

 

“We’ve got to do something!” Alfred said, coughing. “There are people down there.”

 

Feliciano stared at him, wide-eyed. 

 

“Are you crazy?” Feliciano squeaked. “I can’t go down there!”

 

“Ludwig went. We need to help him!”

 

Feliciano looked down at the flames. Terrified screams drifted on the hot wind, carried up into the black sky. He clawed at his ears, pressing them closed. 

 

“I can’t!” he wailed. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Feliciano!,” Alfred shouted. He crawled over to his friend and pulled at his arms, trying to get him up. “We’ve got to. We can save them! We can be heroes!”

 

Pulling away from Alfred, Feliciano, drew his legs up beneath him and huddled in a ball. Try as he might, Alfred could not make him move. Another wagon collapsed behind them, sending up a shower of sparks. Feliciano cried out and huddled closer to himself. 

 

“Fine,” said Alfred. “Be a coward!”

 

He rose to a crouch and moved into the valley. The smoke was thick and oily, and Alfred had to stay low not to choke on it. Dark shadows moved within the inferno, but they were hard to pin down as they kept disappearing into the shimmering haze of heat. The first person Alfred came across was an old woman, who was trapped underneath a collapsed wagon. She was unconscious, and Alfred dragged her out from under the scorched wood. She moaned in pain.

 

A shape, covered in ash ran up to her and started taking her away. Alfred, his mind a blur, left them and ran deeper into the smoke. At first he heard screams, but they were soon drowned out by the roar of the flames. 

 

Alfred was nearly knocked to the ground when a large man ran into him. He turned and saw it was Ludwig. His arms and legs were bright red, and his hands were starting to blister. He grabbed Alfred and dragged him close, yelling in his ear. 

 

“There are wagons full of wood and gun powder just at the edge of the camp,” he shouted. “I need you to help me move them before they ignite!”

 

Alfred coughed and nodded. He followed Ludwig through the carnage in the valley, not stopping to think about those who had fallen in their path. Eventually, the smoke thinned, and Alfred could see several unharmed wagons ahead. At the rate the fire was spreading it wouldn’t take long for them to be consumed as well. Ludwig and Alfred ran over the ground, amidst flares of embers and spreading fingers of fire. When they reached their destination, the wagons was already starting to burn. Ludwig leapt inside.

 

Alfred heard him grunt. “This is it!” Ludwig called. 

 

He reappeared, rolling a great barrel to the edge of the wagon. 

 

“Help me!” he said. “We can’t afford to drop it!”

 

Alfred’s muscles screamed, and he bent over coughing when he tried to take a deep breath. When he got his breath back as much as he could, he nodded at Ludwig. 

 

Together, the two men lowered the cask to the ground. Alfred felt his vision go blurry around the edges from the exertion. When it was done, Alfred and Ludwig gasped for breath and coughed as if they were trying to lose their lungs. But they could not tarry, and Ludwig motioned for Alfred to help him roll the cask. 

 

“There is a creek just a little ways from here,” said a voice from over their shoulders. 

 

Alfred turned to see Arthur behind them. He wasn’t looking at them, but pointed and dashed into the fire. A blur of smokey shadows dashed overhead.

 

“Daemons,” Ludwig said in awe. 

 

Alfred saw that it was true. A pack of the skeletal, dog-like creatures that had chased him down before dashed into the fire. Turning back to their task, they painstakingly rolled the cask to the creek and dumped it. Ludwig kicked a hole in it, letting the powder soak through. 

 

When it was done, Alfred and Ludwig slumped with exhaustion. Alfred made to stand, but Ludwig pulled him down. 

 

“I’ve got to go help,” Alfred mumbled. “There might be others I can help.”

 

“You’re no use to anyone if you get yourself killed,” Ludwig chided. “Sit, and drink some water.”

 

Before Alfred could protest or move back towards the fire, the daemons, rushed out, most of the seemed to be carrying people. They fled to safety, and Alfred watched them go with relief. 

 

He watched dazedly as the fire crept closer to him and Ludwig, but he couldn’t seem to make his body move. Every part of his body hurt, and it seemed like more effort than he could manage to continue fleeing the flames. Ludwig seemed to be in a similar condition, as he also didn’t move, but stared blankly into the firelight. 

 

Alfred dimly registered a shadow move before the blaze, and after a moment of trying to make his stinging eyes focus, he realized it was Arthur. He had no strength to do anything more than watch, and so Alfred did. Arthur raises his arms, palms up. His cloak slide off revealing his thin arms, creating a halo of shadow against the brightness. 

 

Arthur’s movements were both powerful and slow, as if he were moving in water. He spread his arms, and Alfred felt the wind around him quiver and grow damp. The fire began to edge back, caught in a circular wind. The blaze swirled, as if angry at being confined. It crawled up the sides of the tower of wind, and sprayed sparks higher and higher. 

 

With an audible exhale, Arthur lowered his arms, bringing his finger tips together. Immediately, a light rain began to fall, though the sky was still clear. Tiny drops hissed as they burst into steam at the fire’s heat, but the drizzle increased, and the flames were battered down. 

 

He started to open is hands again, and with a sharp intake of breath, flipped them palms down and snapped them up. 

 

The ground beneath the fire, and the areas surrounding it turned to mud. Alfred and Ludwig sank into the sudden bog with cries of surprise. The fire was instantly dowsed. Alfred stared into the night, waiting for his dark vision to recover. When it did, he saw one of the low daemons, step through the marsh and pick up Arthur, who had collapsed. Another daemon joined the first, and then another. Finally, they managed to prop their leader up on one of their backs and stalk away. 

 

Alfred and Ludwig lay panting, letting the cold mud sap away some of the heat from their burns. After a while, Ludwig stirred and groaned. 

 

“We need to find Feliciano,” he said. 

 

“He should be fine,” Alfred said. He was reluctant to move, and when he tried, every fiber of his being protested. He let out a little moan. “He wouldn’t go near the fire, the coward.”

 

Ludwig shot a glare at Alfred. “It is no shame to not want to run into a wildfire. Be kind to him.”

 

“But there were people who he could have helped,” Alfred said. 

 

“Or he could have died. He has a brother, friends, who expect him to return.”

 

Alfred shrugged. “I’ll just remember not to trust him with anything important if anything real is at stake.”

 

“Your words are unkind. Save your condemnation.”

 

They walked in uncomfortable silence, trekking through mud and ash. Alfred wish more nothing more than his winged boots so he didn’t have to slog through the disgusting muck. Arthur’s little magic trick had left the ground a knee-deep soup of mud and ash. Alfred and Ludwig were coated with the sludge in moments as they waded back the hill where they’d left Feliciano. They finally reached the base of the hill and threw themselves down on the solid earth. Alfred stared up at the sky, thinking about Arthur and catching his breath. Alfred finally broke the silence. 

 

“Did you know Arthur could do that?” he asked, panting. 

 

“I’ll need you to be more specific,” Ludwig said. He voice was almost level, but Alfred could hear a hint of a tremor in it. “Are you referring to the hoard of daemon hounds at his disposal, or the storm he conjured, or how he appeared right when there was a fire blazing?”

 

“The storm specifically. The other things I’m pretty used to by now.”

 

Ludwig stared at Alfred and gave a weak little laugh. When he next spoke, there was something like respect in Ludwig’s bearing. 

 

“I have heard many tales of daemon magic,” he said thoughtfully. “I always dismissed most of them as rumors. As powerful and old as the gods may be, their ‘magic’ as such is not what makes them impressive.”

 

Alfred nodded. As impressive as the gods were, he’d never seen them pull a magical stunt the like of what Arthur had just done. 

 

“I don’t think they would have intervened,” Alfred said, indicating the remains of the refugee’s burnt out belongings. 

 

Ludwig was silent at that. Alfred didn’t push the line of thought. When they had fully caught their breath, they stood again, and Alfred grimaced at the black sludge drying on him. He’d have to ask Antonio for new clothes. 

 

As they made their way up the hill, they came across Feliciano. He was still curled in on himself. His eyes and nose were dripping, and he didn’t seem to notice Alfred and Ludwig even as they stood over him. Alfred went to nudge him with his foot, harsh words on his tongue. But Ludwig held him back, as if he knew what was going through Alfred’s mind. With care that didn’t seem to quite fit him, Ludwig scooped Feliciano in his arms. Feliciano dangled bonelessly, not saying a word, just staring ahead with terror in his face. 

 

“Come on,” Ludwig said. If Feliciano’s weight bothered him, he didn’t show it. Alfred couldn’t help but be impressed as they trudged back the Albion. 

 

Alfred shivered in relief when the warmth from the inn’s fire washed over him. Upon their entrance, Antonio made a noise of disgust at their appearance. His shout changed to one of concern when he noticed Feliciano in Ludwig’s arms. 

 

“Feli!” he called, rushing over. “What happened to him?”

 

“Shock,” Ludwig said.

 

Just then, Lovino burst from kitchen running to his brother’s side. 

 

“What did you do to him you bastard?” he shouted at Ludwig.

 

“Nothing,” Ludwig said, taken aback by the sheer aggression in little Lovino. He didn’t resist as Lovino snatched his brother and carried him over his shoulder up to their room. 

 

Antonio said nothing and glared at Ludwig. Alfred stepped forward, putting himself between them. 

 

“He’s telling the truth,” he said. “There was a fire out on the moors. Ludwig carried Feliciano all the way back.”

 

After a long moment studying them, Antonio nodded. “Clean up and change into something that won’t track sludge all over my inn, and then you can tell me the story.”

 

Ludwig and Alfred gratefully departed and Antonio drew them both warm baths. Alfred figured he could’ve used a second tub to get fully clean, but he was dying to know if Antonio had any more information about the daemon magic Arthur had displayed. When he returned to the common room, Antonio beckoned him over. He placed a cup of hot cider in front of them both. 

 

“So Ludwig didn’t hurt Feli?” he asked. 

 

Alfred shook his head. “No. He probably saved a lot of people.” 

 

At Antonio’s surprised expression, Alfred told him everything—that it was the refugee’s camp that burned, about Ludwig charging in with Alfred to save people and make sure the fire didn’t reach the kegs of blasting powder, about Arthur and his low daemons saving those trapped in the fire, about the strange magic Arthur had used. Antonio just shook his head in bemusement. 

 

“So you haven’t heard anything like that?” Alfred asked, disappointed. 

 

Antonio shook his head. “No. It seems like a secret the daemons guard carefully.”

 

The two sat in thoughtful silence, sipping the warm cider. Alfred sighed as the warmth spread through him, driving away the last of the damp cold that clung to him. A few moments later, Antonio sighed and looked up at the Feliciano and Lovino’s room. His kind eyes held worry and he gnawed at his lip. 

 

“So Feliciano is pretty useless in a pinch,” Alfred said. He tried to make his voice humorous, but it mostly came of bitter. 

 

Antonio bit down on his lip. “Feliciano has a gentle soul.”

 

“You mean he’s a coward.”

 

Antonio glared at Alfred. “The world needs more like him.”

 

Alfred scoffed but didn’t respond. Antonio went about his work behind the bar, pointedly ignoring Alfred. Unfortunately for Antonio, Alfred didn’t notice the lingering anger in Antonio and soon departed with a huge yawn. 

 

As soon as the door to Alfred’s room shut, another opened and Ludwig came into the common room. Antonio gestured for him to sit and put another flask of cider between them. 

 

“Is Feliciano going to be alright?” he asked. 

 

Antonio stared at Ludwig for a moment before nodding. “I should thank you for bringing him home safe. He is…” Antonio looked around awkwardly, “rather fragile.”

 

Ludwig shrugged. “He is kind and sees the best in people,” he said softly. “It is not often I’m treated as a friend, or even in a friendly manner. People either fear us,” he nodded at Antonio, who nodded, “or think of us as priests. Very few see us as just people. It is a nice change.”

 

“I am sorry,” Antonio said. “For not seeing it when you first arrived.”

 

Ludwig shrugged. “I don’t blame you. The gods’ work is often a lonely path.”

 

“Yet you still walk it,” Antonio said. 

 

“For now.”

 


	18. Shapes in the Mist

It took Feliciano several days to return to his normal self, but when he did, it was like nothing had happened. Alfred was slower to forget Feliciano’s complete breakdown, but eventually his overbearing friendliness won. Alfred found himself chatting with Feliciano about gods and daemons again. Though now Ludwig joined in their conversations. This turn of events thrilled Feliciano to no end.

Alfred and Ludwig were not exactly friends, but they had a healthy respect for each other. In fact, most of Albion seemed to have grown used to Ludwig’s presence. The inn returned to its normal activity, encouraged not a little by Ludwig buying everyone a round every so often.

Things were so ordinary in fact, that Alfred was caught off guard when Ludwig abruptly pulled him aside one morning. His face was drawn with some inner conflict that even Alfred noticed. He stood for a long moment with his hand crushing Alfred’s shoulder. With a deep breath, he leaned in close to Alfred’s ear and whispered.

“My fellows are coming,” he said.

Alfred looked at him blankly. Ludwig grumbled and shook him slightly.

“The rest of the Inquisition. If they find you here, they’ll drag you back to Aenea—willingly or not. You need to leave.”

Antonio had gathered what Ludwig whispered to Alfred, as he turned and started gathering food together. He took down strips of dried meat, some dried apples, and wrapped a block of cheese in a cloth.

“I don’t have much I can send with you,” Antonio said.

Alfred looked between Ludwig and Antonio. “How long do I need to be gone for?”

Ludwig shook his head. “It’s never the same. It depends on how much ‘correction’ the dedicates decide Albion needs. I will try to move them on as quickly as I can. If they find a trace of you, it will be longer.”

“I’ll send Feli to see you off,” Antonio said. “He can teach you some of what plants you can eat.” He turned back towards the kitchen. “Feli!” he shouted.

Feliciano came running out. He grinned at Alfred and Ludwig, who grinned back.

Antonio grabbed Feliciano by the shoulder and stared him in the eye, trying to impress the seriousness of the situation upon him.

“Alfred needs to leave Albion for a while. Ludwig says the Inquisition will be here soon, and if they find him they’ll take him away.”

“And I really don’t want that,” Alfred put in.

Antonio nodded. “I’ve given Alfred some food but he needs to know what he can eat out on the moors. Can you show him?”

“Of course!” Feliciano said. “When do we leave?”

“Now,” said Ludwig and Antonio together.

Alfred stuffed the food into his sack, plucked another dried apple, and turned to head out. As he was about to leave, he looked at Ludwig.

“Will you be in trouble for helping me?” he asked.

Ludwig frowned. “Only if they find out. Now leave.”

Alfred nodded his thanks, and he and Feliciano left.

Then they were off. The city of Albion fell behind them slowly. Houses grew farther apart, and eventually stopped all together. Alfred and Feliciano chatted about food as they walked. Always a good topic of conversation in Alfred's opinion. Occasionally, Feliciano would stop and point out some plant to Alfred, saying what was edible on it--the roots, the leaves, or the stems--and what they were good with. This last part was less useful to Alfred, who doubted that he would be having lamb with gravy anytime soon, but he figured it would help him remember what to look for.

As the town almost faded completely behind them, Feliciano grew nervous. Eventually he stopped, and looked at Alfred with a pained expression.

"What's wrong?" Alfred asked.

Feliciano nibbled at his lip and looked over his shoulder. "Nothing important," he said. "I just don't like being so far from home."

"Albion is just over the hill," Alfred said. 

"Yes... I suppose it is."

Alfred gave a put upon sigh. Feliciano was scared. Again. The incident with the fire seemed to have made him more timid than before.

"Fine," Alfred said, a little more harshly than he intended. "Just go back. Wouldn't want you to get frightened. Then I might have to carry you."

Tears welled in Feliciano's eyes and Alfred felt guilt surge in him.

"Just. Head back before you get lost," Alfred said. Then he turned and started walking down the hill. He felt eyes on him. Since he hadn’t heard anything, he figured Feliciano was still there, staring at his back. Alfred turned, but there was no one there.

With a shrug, Alfred made his way into the wilderness.

By noon, a light rain began to fall, and Alfred was cold and miserable soon after. He didn't like being cold. The grey light had an odd quality to it on the moorland, and it made keeping a direction difficult. By the late afternoon, Alfred had no idea which direction Albion lay. He figured he hadn't wandered too far, but the uncertainty laid a blanket of unease over him.

 _What if I can't get back?_ he thought. But he put the thought out of his mind. He was Alfred, messenger of the gods, and friend of daemons. They wouldn't let him die out here.

 _Arthur has been avoiding you,_ a nasty little voice said. It was barely a whisper. _Maybe he'll just leave you to die._

If was useless to wonder about such things, though. He wasn't going to be like Feliciano, who froze when things started to get hairy. He would keep a clear mind, and in a few days, he'd return to Albion and the life he was starting to consider his.

The first thing he needed to do now was find some shelter. The rain was light but cold, and occasional gusts of wind cut through his damp layers. The heather of the moorlands was slick, and the ground was turning boggy. It was unlikely that any of Ludwig's fellow inquisitors would be searching for him out here in this weather. So he could turn his attention from making his way a safe distance from Albion to finding somewhere to camp.

The moors were hilly, with patches of old growth trees, and the occasional stretch of proper woods. Nothing like the great forests ruled over by Natalia or Katerina, but open woods with tall trees and springy dirt underfoot. Alfred tried to find one of these to make camp in, but they didn't actually provide much shelter from the rain or wind. So he wandered, looking for the little dense groves of trees that dotted the rolling hills.

It was after he had just departed from one tangled mess of trees and brambles that he first felt like he was being watched. It wasn’t the same as before, when he felt Feliciano looking after him. There was something… _heavy_ …in the feeling.

Alfred looked around, but all he could see was the unremarkable grey of rain-soaked hills. He laughed to himself, trying to make light of his own unease, and pressed on.

The afternoon started to melt into evening and Alfred still hadn’t found anywhere to make camp. The rain had mostly stopped, and a thick mist had settled in its place. It was quiet, and Alfred listened for any sort of sound. He had begun to hope that Arthur would find him. But the sight of any other living thing would be welcome.

As the last light slunk away, Alfred gave up trying to find shelter. He threw his small bag of supplies down and huddled in the lee of a hill. It was wet and muddy, but out of the wind, and Alfred decided to be grateful for small victories.

He munched on some of the food Antonio had given him. Despite the damp and mist, having a full belly warmed Alfred, and his spirits soon lifted. He figured that going out to continue his search for a better campsite was a bad idea. It would probably leave him soaked and muddy from slipping in the wet heather—and that was if slipping didn’t injure him outright. And besides, the little dip in the hill protected him from the wind, and his cloak kept him mostly dry. It wasn’t even that muddy. Nothing like some of the bogs he’d walked through earlier that had almost stolen his boots.

Just as he was settling in to try and sleep, Alfred felt the heavy gaze on him again.

“Hello?” he asked. His voice was soft and sticky. He cleared his throat then called, “Hello?” louder this time.

Though he didn’t want to admit it, Alfred hoped it was Arthur watching him. Not just because Arthur could get him somewhere more comfortable and safe, but because Alfred missed him. Their meeting days had come and gone, come and gone, then come and gone again and Arthur had made no sign of showing himself. Not to Alfred anyway. Arthur had appeared at the fire, but he hadn’t known Alfred was there.

Arthur had been mad with Alfred before. Actually, Alfred reflected, he seemed to be grumpy with Alfred more than he wasn’t. But that had never stopped Arthur from spending time with him. Something about “She Who Sleeps Below”—or Sleeper as Alfred was starting to think of her—was different.

“Arthur?” he called. There was no response.

Try as he might, Alfred could not settle down. The mist devoured all light and Alfred was left with nothing but darkness. He tried wiggling his fingers in front of his eyes. Nothing.

He wanted his winged boots.

The moon and the stars were up there somewhere, surely, and Alfred wanted to free himself from the damp hold of the fog. Fly up, find the Laurel the rabbit, and Elaine’s doomed tower. If he could just get his bearings, then maybe he wouldn’t feel so jumpy.

He wanted his boots.

What was that? He whipped around, convinced he saw motion out of the corner of his eyes. But he started into the blackness and wasn’t sure.

He was being watched—by now he was convinced of it. The feeling soaked into him, starting with his skin, then settling into his lungs and stomach. Something was out there. Something was staring at him, unblinking.

“Arthur?” Alfred’s voice was desperate now, just on this side of panic.

He wanted his boots.

Part of him saw the situation with a cold grin. _He’s not coming_ , it said, _No one is_.

“He found me before.”

_Before you made him angry. Before you made him hate you._

“Arthur doesn’t hate me,” Alfred said, but he was convincing no one. Especially not the icy voice in the back of his mind.

 _Well,_ the part of Alfred said, _Perhaps one thing will come for you…_

Alfred wanted his boots.

There was a sound, enormous in the sticky silence. A crack of stick. With a jolt, Alfred was on his feet. A soft wind touched his face. It smelled sickly sweet, like leaves rotting in water. It was the smell of death, and Alfred had never experienced it so clearly.

He drew the pair of daggers Gilbert had given him and stood, awaiting whatever it was to appear. He wasn’t going to die without a fight.

The wind puffed around him, stirring his hair like moist fingers. Aside from the earlier crack, there were no more sounds. Alfred strained his eyes out into the pitch night, trying to see any motion. But there was nothing. It was as if the world just ended around him.

* * *

 

Alfred woke with a start when light stabbed through his eyelids. The morning was clear; the fog had lifted. Low clouds rolled through the sky, but every once in a while, the sun managed to break through.

Alfred struggled to his feet. The past night had left him sore and stiff. As he stood up, he stopped. What could only be described as a blanket slid off him. It was mostly heather but it was coated in tufts of fur and sludge that looking like it was from the bottom of a marsh. Alfred could see little bones inlaid in it. He put his hand to his mouth, choking back a gag. Glancing around, he noticed that the ground was disturbed. In a ring around where he must have collapses the night before, the heather was gone, as if something enormous had torn it all out.

 _At least we know where the heather in the blanket came from,_ Alfred thought.

He stared for a long time, unsure of what to make of it. Why did whatever it was ravage the area around Alfred, but leave him untouched. No, not untouched--it had _covered_ him. Was it marking him somehow? Declaring that Alfred was its to devour? Or was it something entirely different?

Shaking himself, Alfred decided he could think while he walked, and that getting away from here was his number one priority.

He set off at as fast a pace as he dared. The ground was treacherous from the rain last night. As he walked, he sang. It was mostly to keep himself company in this lonely place. He started with his favorites—songs of heroes and lovers and brave deeds. When he ran out of those, he switched to songs he’d learned in Antonio’s tavern. Eventually he found himself making up his own songs.

As Alfred approached the next clump of trees to see if he could make a suitable camp there, he paused. There was a trembling in the undergrowth, and Alfred’s hands flew to his daggers. The bushes erupted, and a milk-white rabbit sprung forth, bounding across the moor.

Alfred broke into a laugh, and on a whim, chased after it.

“Come back, Laurel!” he shouted, using the name of the rabbit from Arthur’s story. The creature paused a short distance away from Alfred and sniffed at the ground. As Alfred approached, it froze and stared at him with enormous dark eyes. When he was a few feet away, it sprang away again. It stopped not too far away, and Alfred was able to pick its snowy white coat out from the dull ground. Alfred continued to chase after it like a little boy, and didn’t realize that the mist had returned. The rabbit, which Alfred continued to call Laurel, lead him down into a valley, deep into swirling mists. After a while, Alfred lost Laurel in the white mist. He looked up, startled. The feeling of being watched returned, even heavier than before.

Alfred decided it was best to keep moving, and so he moved down the gully Laurel had disappeared into. Visibility was bad and getting worse, but it didn’t occur to him to try and climb out of the mist.

All it took was one misstep to send him sprawling down the gully. He shouted in pain as his ankle twisted on some wet grass. On his way down, he struck something hard with his arm, and finally stopped with a crack against a tree trunk. He took a deep breath and a moment to survey the pain. He’d hit the tree trunk with his side, and while it throbbed, he didn’t think anything was broken. The ankle he twisted would be sore for a while, and he’d have to be careful to keep from twisting it again.

His arm was another matter. More specifically his wrist, which had snapped in the wrong direction when it collided with something on his way down the gully. He tried to wiggle his fingers and almost threw up from the pain and nausea that shot up through his arm and landed in his stomach.

“Definitely broken,” he said.

Careful to keep his wrist still, Alfred sat up and took in his surroundings. It was hard to see, due to the swirling fog, but he was definitely in some sort of little forest. Though the trees were unlike any he’d ever seen. They were pale white with flakey bark that seemed to meld into the mist. Some of them had thick scars of black knots and their leaves rustled even though Alfred couldn’t feel any wind.

Taking a deep breath, he curled his wrist into his stomach and began to feel around for sticks or branches. He found a few sturdy ones after crawling around a bit. Sitting back down, he eased his sack of food off his shoulders, swearing when he bumped his broken wrist.

Once the pain dulled and his stomach settled, Alfred drew one of his daggers and sliced one of the two shoulder straps off. He looked down at his wrist and its odd angle. This was going to be the hard part. He grabbed a thick slab or jerky and put it between his teeth. Then he laid his forearm on top of one of the thick sticks. With a muffled shout of pain, he eased his wrist straight. There was a sensation of grinding bone and black flowers bloomed over Alfred’s vision. A small piece of jerky fell to the ground as Alfred bit straight through it. After what felt like an eternity of pain, it dimmed to rolling waves in time with Alfred’s heartbeat.

Placing the other two sticks to insure his wrist stayed immobile was easier, and though the initial pressure of wrapping his wrist in the strap made him bite through another piece of jerky. Once the painsettled, Alfred felt better.

Alfred sat back and wiped his forehead with his good hand. He was dripping with sweat, and the chilly damp of the mist didn’t help. Though nausea threatened to overcome him several times, he held his stomach. He didn’t have enough food to waste any throwing up.

While he caught his breath, Alfred looked around. The slope was gentler here, and part of Alfred was able to appreciate the eerie beauty of the place. After a little more searching, he found a large, fallen branch that he could use as a walking stick. With care, he slid his pack across his body and stood up.

The world spun a little, but Alfred gripped the walking stick and the feeling faded.

Picking his way down the gully, Alfred began to wonder about the place he’d stumbled upon. He’d never seen trees like this. Not on Arthur’s moors, not in the south, not even in the great forests of the mountains. As he continued on, Alfred felt like walls were closing in on him, which was odd because he couldn’t see more than a few paces to either side. But there were more rocks. It wasn’t noticeable to start, but Alfred soon found himself navigating around boulders taller than he was. After passing many of them, Alfred began getting waves of strangeness from them. He couldn’t figure out what was so strange about them until he finally saw two at the same time.

They were all roughly the same shape.

Alfred had seen a lot of rocks in his time, growing up in the sheer canyons of Caelei. Even old rocks had a somewhat organic shape to them. These enormous stones did not have that. They were all maybe half again as tall as Alfred was, and significantly taller than they were wide.

Alfred approached the one closest to him. While the stone was smooth from years in the elements, he could tell that it had once been some sort of statue. Though the carving was long gone, Alfred was sure that it once _had_ been carved.

“What is this place?” he murmured to himself.

There was no answer.

Alfred wandered from stone to stone, trying to see if any had features he could make out. When darkness was truly about to set in, Alfred came to a stop. Before him was a tower of stone that put the other ancient statues to shame. It was so tall that the top was lost in the mist. Alfred got a sudden image of an enormous face peaking out into the clear night sky, staring up at the moon.

As Alfred drew closer, more details emerged. First, there was an opening at the base of the stone. It opened up like a mouth, and stairs nearly worn away by time descended down into the earth. Second, and this sent a chill down Alfred’s spine, were two enormous bowls that rested on either side of the entrance. Alfred peered into one. It was filled with the charcoal of a fire. Alfred touched it with a finger and it crumbled into ask.

Fires had been lit here. And not long ago.

A sweet scent rose to meet his nose, and Alfred recoiled, thinking that it was the death stench from the night before. But the sweetness never turned foul and Alfred soon realized its source. Looking down, the ground in from of the fire-bowl was strewn with the last of summer’s wildflowers. They were bright spots of color in the colorless mist-world.

“Some kind of shrine,” Alfred said. “But to who? Or maybe to what?”

The best thing he could guess that it was to some of the daemons—maybe even Arthur. The gods didn’t have anything like this. Alfred returned to the mouth the cavern.

Possibly rather stupidly, Alfred shouted down into its depths.

“Hello?” he called. Nothing. His words bounced down and away, eaten by the stone walls.

Possibly, rather stupidly, Alfred took a step inside. Then another. And another, until the ground swallowed him whole.


	19. The Daemon's Shrine

As Alfred stepped down into the shrine, lamps burst into light around him. They were every couple of feet, giving off a clear golden glow that was too even to be firelight. 

Curious, Alfred stepped closer. The lamp was a smooth sphere, made of glass or crystal. He touched it and found it to be cool. Alfred was clever, and he was good at figuring out and understanding how things worked. Most things, once you learned about them, made sense. But in all his time with gods and daemons, he’d never seen anything this fantastic. Or, now that he thought about it, the only thing that came close was Arthur’s display of power in quenching the fire. 

Alfred was starting to figure that the world was a lot more magical than he’d thought. 

The lamps lit a small bubble that travelled with him down into the depths of the shrine. It was well preserved, Alfred noticed. As if someone had been keeping it free of debris. 

As Alfred took all this in, his echoing steps finally led him to a large, underground chamber. As he entered, there was a flurry of motion and thousands of magical lamps sprang to light. 

The chamber was enormous, bigger than some of the gods’ temples Alfred had been in. He stood at the top of a great amphitheater, with a long path of shallow steps leading down a large pool of water. Along the sloping sides were more statues like the ones Alfred had seen outside, but these had been protected from the elements. 

Alfred had been right, this was some sort of shrine to daemons. He saw statues of figures he recognized—Ivan, Katerina, Arthur, Elizabeta. There was something odd about them though, and it took Alfred a long moment of staring to realize what it was. While easily recognizable, these statues showed the daemons looking much younger. Their faces were those of children. 

There were many more statues than daemons he knew. Dozens more. Alfred wondered where they were from—or what had happened to them. Was the world really big enough for so many?

With these thoughts, Alfred made his way towards the middle of the chamber. Rising out of the water was a stone figure. Like the one that loomed above the entrance, this one was larger than the rest of the statues. This statue was a woman. Or a being that looked like a woman. She had a broad, flat face with a wide nose. Her lips were full, and even made of stone they looked soft. Her hair was concealed under a hood or a scarf, and the material flowed down, wrapping the rest of her body in a whirl of fabric. Later, Alfred swore he’d seen some of it drift about from the corner of his eyes. But it was her eyes that made Alfred stare. They were open, carved in loving detail, and staring straight at him. 

The weight of her gaze made Alfred feel very small. There was only one person this could be. 

She Who Sleeps Below. 

Alfred felt the same heavy sense of being watched, and once again, the stench of decay engulfed him. It all seemed to be emanating from her. 

Why had the gods never spoken of her?

Why did bringing her up send Arthur into an angry silence?

Was she still here? 

Alfred sighed as he thought all these questions. He looked around the cavern, hoping something here would give him any sort of context. The walls, which Alfred had not noticed before, were painted. Enormous scenes ringed him, illuminated by the gentle light of the lamps. Alfred walked around to each, staring and trying to follow the story. He recognized a few characters—some of the daemons he knew, a figure he assumed was the Sleeper. But try as he might, he could not puzzle out the story for himself. 

He sighed, resigned. He needed someone who could make sense of this. He needed a scholar. He needed Feliciano. 

Alfred left the temple without incident. Outside, the shrine was still shrouded in mist. Alfred made to hike his way back up when a familiar figure appeared. He didn’t walk out of the mist so much as appear out of thin air not four feet from Alfred.

Alfred jumped in surprise, which jostled his wrist and made him groan in pain. Once the worst had passed, he looked up at the person. 

“Kiku?” 

Kiku, his oldest friend and fellow ward of the gods stood before him. His expression was as impossible as ever for Alfred to decipher. 

“What on earth are  _you_  doing  _here_?” Alfred asked, gesturing to the misty basin. 

“I come on behalf of your mother,” Kiku said. 

Alfred stiffened. “What does Arlya want?”

“She is worried about you,” Kiku said, nodding towards Alfred’s splinted wrist. 

“How did she know—?”

Kiku shook his head. “Pakram forbade her to aid you. So she sent me to you.”

Alfred raised his eyebrows. “You’re going against Pakram’s wishes?” he said, impressed that Kiku would do such a thing. He never struck Alfred as the brave or rebellious type. “Isn’t that, I don’t know, dangerous?”

“Perhaps,” Kiku said with a shrug. Then he turned his face away and said, “Arlya is not the only one who worries for you.”

The words hung in the air between them. Kiku slid the pack from his back and pulled out the sweetest sight Alfred had ever seen. 

“My boots!” he shouted. “Oh, Kiku, I could kiss you!”

Alfred didn’t look up to see Kiku freeze and turn as red as Antonio’s tomato stew. He was too busy pulling off his mud caked boots and sliding back into the soft leather of his winged boots. With a little skip, he took to the air, hovering just above the ground. 

Kiku frowned and tugged Alfred back down. “Alfred, I need to tell you something,” he said. 

But Alfred was too elated with being able to fly to pay attention to Kiku’s words. 

“I’ll be able to get back to Albion in a flash now!” he said. 

“Alfred—“

“And then bring Feliciano here.”

“Alfred, please—“

“And maybe he can make sense of those stupid paintings.”

“Wait—”

But Alfred was already shooting away. Kiku looked after him, not noticing the pained expression that contorted his own face. He hadn’t been able to warn Alfred. But he’d been gone too long, and Heracles would have already noticed his absence. He’d just have to trust Alfred. Which Kiku found unreasonably difficult.  

* * *

 

Once he was airborne, Alfred managed to get his bearings back. He was surprised in how far he’d managed to walk from Albion in just two days. The hollow where the Sleeper’s shrine lay was deep in the moors. Alfred must have walked there in almost a straight line to arrive in less than three days. This struck Alfred as strange, but he was too busy thinking about the shrine to dwell on it. 

The flight back to Albion took him nearly the whole day. When he reached the town, night had truly fallen and Alfred was exhausted. Though the brace kept it mostly steady, balancing while flying was tricky and involved a lot of arm movement. Thus Alfred’s wrist hurt something awful. It was this pain that saved him. 

At the edge of Albion, the pain had become too much, and Alfred stopped to let it die down. As he lay on the cool ground, letting the pain wash over him in waves, Alfred hear raised voices. 

“I don’t care who you are,” a woman shouted. “We don’t have any more food! Go to Antonio.”

“The gods are going to hear about this!” another woman shouted. “We have the divine right to be fed and sheltered by anyone under their protection.”

The first woman gave a creative suggestion of where the gods could shove their protection. The second woman roared in rage and the sound of fighting broke out. Alfred started to lift himself up. He would defend the Albians who had accepted him into their town! But before as he got so much as sitting, he heard Ludwig’s familiar voice. 

“Come Octavia. She doesn’t even have food to give you. This isn’t worth fighting over.”

“You can’t let them get away with this, Ludwig,” she said. “It’s the principle.”

“Principle won’t put food in your belly. Plus, Antonio’s food is going to be better than anything these peasants could give you.”

This seemed to mollify the second woman—Octavia—and the fighting stopped. 

“Damn it,” Alfred mumble to himself. Ludwig’s inquisition was here. In all of the excitement, it had slipped his mind. He’d have to find a way to get Feliciano out without alerting people to his presence. 

Once Alfred wasn’t drowning the waves of pain from his wrist, he stood, wobbling a little. He crept towards the inn, staying in the shadows and avoiding anyone on the streets. He wasn’t worried about any Albians giving him away, at least not intentionally, but wasn’t going to risk it. 

The Sign of the Ripe Tomato was packed and loud. Alfred studied the entrance from behind a rain barrel on the other side of the street. People wearing dark purple cloaks with different insignias drifted in and out. These must be the inquisitors. There were more of them than Alfred had expected. This was less a group of inspectors and more of a small occupying force. And it seemed like most of them were being put up by Antonio at the inn. 

Unlike Ludwig, most of these men and women were rowdy, and if the Albion women’s scuffle earlier was any sign, they were eating the town out of house and home. 

It made him angry at how his town—yes, it was his town now—was being treated. He wanted to storm into the inn and kick them all out on their asses. But a voice in the back of his head (which spoke in Arthur’s voice of all things) cautioned against it. If they found him here, it would make everything worse for everyone else. Especially Antonio, Feliciano, and Ludwig. And Alfred had a feeling that Feliciano would not hold up well to interrogation. 

So that made the idea of heroically ridding the town of the inquisition just a fantasy. He needed to be careful, crafty. He needed to find a way to get Feliciano out without him being missed. Alfred sighed in frustration. He wished Arthur were with him. Subtlety and care were not his greatest strengths. 

Slowly the bones of a plan came together in his head. He doubted Arthur would approve of it. Or Ludwig. Or Antonio. Or anyone for that matter. But he couldn’t think of anything else. Well, besides ‘wait until the inquisition leaves,’ which would be sensible, but Alfred wanted to show Feliciano the shrine  _now._  And who knew how long they’d be there. 

From behind the rain barrel, he began the first step of his plan. He waited and watched the comings and goings from the inn. Most of the inquisitors wandered in groups, but finally, one stumbled out alone. 

They wobbled down the street, supposedly towards whoever was housing them. Alfred took a careful look around to make sure no one was around to see him, then flew up into the night sky. He followed the meandering inquisitor as he stumbled down the street. Finally the man turned down a small side street towards a small group of houses. Once he was out of sight from the main road, Alfred dropped onto him. 

The man was too drunk to shout, and mostly made a surprised gurgling sound. Alfred soon found out how hard it was to fight a drunken man. Especially when you have a tender, broken wrist. He was too confused and too floppy for any of Alfred’s attempts at fighting to really do much. Alfred was about to give up when the man toppled over on his own accord. Unsure of what else to do, Alfred walked over and sat on him to make sure he couldn’t go for help. The man struggled a little, but seemed to accept his fate when Alfred didn’t move. 

Already the plan was going to hell, and Alfred’s panicky mind whirled. His thoughts were broken by a loud snort. He looked down at the man he’d pinned. He had fallen asleep. 

While it wasn’t exactly what he’d planned, the end goal was accomplished. Alfred struggled to get the man out of his purple cloak. This also turned out to be more difficult than Alfred anticipated, as the man lay heavy and bonelessly on the earth. Finally, with a grunt, he managed to roll the man over enough to get the cloak out from under him. 

Alfred looked up triumphantly at the cloak. Part one of his plan, complete. Now it was time to for part two. Which was more likely than not to get him sent to Aenea with a company of fanatical dedicates. 

Time to get this over with.

Alfred slung the cloak around his shoulders and pulled the hood up over his face. He found a dark, out-of-the-way place to stash his winged boots, which were far too distinctive. Clad in the inquisitor’s cloak and boots, he made towards the inn. 

He pressed his hand against the door and took a deep breath. He figured a group of people this large probably wouldn’t all know each other, but Alfred knew he could be wrong. If someone tried to talk to him and recognized that he wasn’t actually an inquisitor, he’d have to make a break for it. And with his boots stashed away and his wrist broken, he doubted his chances of a clean getaway. 

So he’d just have to make sure to not attract attention. 

Pushing the door open, he made his way inside. It was packed with people wearing purple robes. Not a single Albion resident was there, except for the three who ran the inn. Antonio was flushed and sweating. Feliciano tried to squeeze between the crowd to deliver drinks and food with varied results. Lovino was nowhere to be seen, and Alfred figured he was probably being intentionally kept away from the inquisitors. 

Alfred began to inch towards Feliciano, but was caught by the crowd. He was pressed between two burly inquisitors and his wrist twisted against his side. He let out an involuntary shout of pain. Instantly, the two inquisitors had their attention turned to him. One of them, a tall woman who looked like she had southern ancestry, caught him as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. 

“Woah there, brother,” she said. “Are you alright?” 

The other one, a sturdy northern fellow, took Alfred’s elbow and drew out his wrist. 

“Gods above,” the man said with concern. “Why haven’t you gotten this treated?”

So much for going unnoticed. 

“Oh, that?” Alfred said with a forced laugh. “It’s nothing to worry about.” This was proven untrue when a gentle touch by the man sent his knees trembling. 

“Stop it, Elias!” the woman chided, then turned back to Alfred. She studied his face, gnawing on his lip. “If you tell me where your group is, I can get you back.”

Shit. 

“It’s really not necessary,” said Alfred, starting to panic. “I don’t want to bother anyone. Just here for some soup.”

The two looked at each other. The man shrugged and cleared a path towards the counter. The woman helped Alfred through the crowd. 

“Hey, innkeeper!” the woman shouted once they were there. “This boy needs some soup!”

Antonio grumbled to himself and bustled over.

“Anything in—“ he stopped short when he looked at Alfred. Alfred silently begged for him to go along with it. 

“Is there a problem,” Elias asked, a threat in his tone. “If there is, have you met Mariam?”

The woman next to Alfred cracked her knuckles. 

Antonio jumped a little. “No trouble,” he said. 

Mariam looked smug as a bemused Antonio delivered Alfred a bowl of soup. 

“Can’t say much else for the inn, but the food is damn good. Reminds me of home,” she said. 

Elias made a face. “Your damn southern food makes my shit burn. I don’t know how you manage it.”

Mariam stuck her tongue out at Elias. “That’s just ‘cause you Northies got weak-ass belly’s from boiling everything. I swear you know no other way of cooking.”

They bantered between themselves while Alfred tried to think of a way to excuse himself. He needed to get to Feliciano discreetly. And thus far he had failed utterly at discretion.

 It was Elias’ complaints about the food that inspired his new plan. Alfred had long since grown accustomed to the spicy food, but no one here knew that. With a groan, he held his stomach. 

“I think the food…” he trailed off and groaned again. 

“Gods-damn Northies,” Miriam said. She stood, pulling Alfred up after her. They made their way towards the back, where the back door was. Outside, the cool air was startling after the warmth of the inn. Alfred made more groaning sounds. 

“I think I’m going to be a while,” he said. 

“I can stay.”

“No, no,” said Alfred. “I, uh, could you maybe just send the serving boy out here with some water?”

Miriam stared at him oddly, but in the end went back inside. 

Alfred waited. He chewed on the fingernails of his good hand. If this worked, they could be out of Albion in just a few minutes. 

Finally, the door opened. Alfred turned and smiled at Feliciano as he walked out. 

“Alfred?” Feliciano said. Alfred made frantic shushing signs with his good hand. 

“Quiet! I can’t let the inquisition know I’m here.”

Feliciano nodded. “But why are you here? I thought—“

“I found something,” said Alfred. “Something out in the moors. And I need you to look at it.”

Feliciano tilted his head. “How far?” 

“Two days walk. Maybe longer if we get lost.”

“That’s very far,” Feliciano said softly. He fidgeted, not meeting Alfred’s eyes. “I’m not sure.”

“Feli,” Alfred said, taking him by the shoulder. “You won’t believe what I found. A whole shrine. To  _her_.”

Feliciano looked at Alfred without understanding. 

“She who Sleeps Below,” Alfred whispered. “There’s statues, paintings, but I can’t make sense of it. You can.”

“She who Sleeps Below,” Feliciano murmured. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t know who else it could be,” said Alfred. 

“Barely anything is known about her,” Feliciano said. Despite himself, he was excited. “I know there are some texts in the library of Aenea, but they’re all restricted. If this  _is_  a shrine to her, it’ll be the biggest scholarly discovery of our time!”

“Then you’re in?” Alfred asked. 

Feliciano looked back at the inn, which was glowing with a warm light. Then he turned towards the dark moors. 

“Let’s go.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                       


	20. Scholarly Insight

Though he was easily frightened by pretty much everything in the outdoors, Alfred actually found Feliciano to be a good traveling companion. So long as Alfred made his scouting trips short. What Feliciano lacked in bravery, he more than made up for in good cheer and a slightly terrifying ability to make good food out of their small supply of provisions.

They had been sure to grab Alfred's boots as they fled Albion, and so were able to navigate to the shrine with little difficulty. Feliciano, despite fearing every shadow and sound, was determined to see the shrine. Alfred had to keep him from bolting a couple times at the sudden appearance of animals from trees or underbrush.

Like before, the valley that held the shrine was deep in mist, despite the day being more or less sunny.

"Down there?" Feliciano asked. He tried and failed to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

"Yep," Alfred said, oblivious to Feliciano's discomfort. "You can't see it because of the mist, but the hill slopes down until it hits the valley floor. Then, boom," Alfred made a dramatic gesture with his good hand, "shrine of mystery!"

Feliciano huddled closer to Alfred. "Stay close," Feliciano said.

Alfred looked over at his friend, and gave a put upon sigh. "Nothing's going to happen to you, Feli. But if it makes you feel better." He offered his non-broken hand to Feliciano, who grabbed onto his whole arm.

As they entered the mist, Alfred felt the feeling of being watched return. Feliciano kept stopping and peering through the mists. After they'd stopped for the fourth time, Alfred tried to keep pulling him along.

"Something's out there," Feliciano said, his voice squeaking.

"No, it's just this place."

"I can feel it—Something's watching us right now!"

"I know it feels like that," Alfred said. He sighed and glared at Feliciano. "When I was first out here I felt like it all the time. It's not real."

"But what if it is?" Feliciano said. Tears were starting to shimmer in his eyes. "Maybe we should go back."

"We're not going back," Alfred said. "Look, there's the first statue. We're almost there."

Feliciano almost, but not quite forgot his fear in the face of academic interest. He didn't let go of Alfred, but pulled him to the statue and examined it.

"Uh, it's pretty much all worn away," Alfred said. "There are better ones inside."

"There are things I can still tell from out here," Feliciano said.

"Like what?"

There was silence, as Feliciano ran his hands over the stone, with a frown of concentration. He seemed interested in a few particular parts. Finally, he stepped back.

"There's absolutely no remains of whatever was carved here," he said triumphantly.

"I just told you that," Alfred said, irritably.

"But not even any sign that they had been carved! Just smooth stone that we can guess was carved because you saw similar statues inside the shrine."

Alfred waited. When Feliciano didn't elaborate, he said, "And that tells us…?"

"That tells us that these statues are old."

"That's it?" Alfred said disappointed.

Feliciano shook his head in frustration. "You're not grasping it. They're old, ancient! Do you know how long it takes for rock to wear away so thoroughly?"

"I guess not."

"Thousands of years!" said Feliciano, waving his arms around. "These are older than any city. They perhaps were here before the gods!"

"You can't be serious," Alfred said, looking at the statue with new eyes.

"It makes sense," Feliciano said. "The gods have tried hard to get rid of the daemons and anything associated with them. If they knew about this…" he trailed off. Abruptly, he spun and looked Alfred in the eyes.

"We can't let them find this place," he said. "They'd obliterate it."

Alfred patted Feliciano, trying to sooth him. "We're not going to just lead the forces of Aenea here," he said. "And if the god's haven't found it in this long, I think something might be protecting it."

"Arthur?"

"No," Alfred said, shaking his head. "It's not something I can really put my finger on."

"Perhaps this place has some destiny that has not come to pass," Feliciano said.

Alfred laughed, but Feliciano seemed serious.

"You're joking, right?" Alfred said.

Feliciano looked thoughtfully around, then back to Alfred.

"It took you just two days to get here the first time, yes?"

"Yeah, it was funny," Alfred said. "I basically walked here," he slowed as he realized what he was saying, "in a straight line."

"As if you were being led. As if your feet were set on this path on purpose."

"You sound just like Arthur," Alfred said irritably. "I wasn't fated to be here. Fate doesn't make me do anything!"

"Fate leads us all," Feliciano said, like it was a well-know adage. "That may be the one thing gods, people, and—if what you say is true—even daemons agree on."

"Come on," Alfred said grumpily. "Let's see if you can get anything from the shrine."

If Feliciano was bothered by Alfred's mood, he didn't show it. He seemed energetic and cheerful as they made their way down the stairs and into the shrine.

They entered the shrine, and the bubble of glass lamps lit around them. Feliciano stared in awe. He drifted over to take a closer look, but Alfred grabbed him with his good hand and led him deeper.

"Come on," he said. "There's a ton of them inside."

Feliciano was silent as they walked down the stairs. Like before, the lamps lit before them and dimmed behind them in a way that made them feel like they were in a bubble of light. Alfred pondered them, but still couldn't come up with an explanation for how they worked. Except "magic," but that was incredibly unsatisfying.

When they reached the central chamber and all the lamps burst into light, Feliciano almost fell over.

"It's so beautiful," he said. Alfred was startled to see actual tears leaking from his eyes.

"I guess it's pretty nice," Alfred said.

Feliciano drifted into the cavern as if in a dream. His eyes were stretched wide, trying to take in as much as possible. He tried to speak a few times, but eventually fell silent. He studied the statues of the daemon children, then moved over to the wall nearest them, with its enormous fresco.

Alfred watched him for a while, but soon found him self wander to the central pool where the statue of The Sleeper stood with her heavy gaze.

Alfred wondered if she was like the other daemons, and her swirling robes hid some sort of animal features. She seemed to look disapproving at this idea, and Alfred found himself breaking the heavy silence of the chamber.

"I was just wondering," he said petulantly. "There's no need to look at me like that. I'm sure lots of people wondered what you looked like under those robes."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he rubbed his face in frustration. "Not like that," he said exasperated to the statue. He smelled the rotting stench.

"Uck," he said, as Feliciano joined him by the water. "You smell that?"

Feliciano sniffed the air. "Smell what?"

"That gross, rotting—" Feliciano just stared at him, so Alfred shrugged. "Never mind. What do you think of her?" he said, pointing to the enormous woman in the water.

"I think you're right," said Feliciano. "She must be She Who Sleeps Below."

"You think so too?"

Feliciano nodded. "She's in a place of distinction, her statue is the largest, and her pose suggests someone of immense power and knowledge."

Alfred let out a low, impressed whistle. "You can get all that just by looking at her."

"Yes. You understand it too, though you don't think you do. I just know how to explain it in words."

"So what else can you tell?" Alfred asked.

Feliciano tore his eyes from The Sleeper. He motioned for Alfred to follow him to one of the frescoes. It was a image of her, huge and robed in swirling layers. In her hands she cradled a ball of flame. Her face, the same broad features as the statue, were the color of freshly turned soil. Her hair was hidden under a bright blue scarf the color of a cloudless sky.

"It begins here," Feliciano said. Slowly, he moved from panel to panel. He said little, but pointed out symbols and characters they knew. There were images of daemons, though none that either Alfred or Feliciano recognized. About halfway through, Feliciano pointed to a corner.

"And here is where we first see humans depicted. These are few and scattered. Later on," he pointed farther around the room, "We see a city."

As they approached the final battles, the frescoes turned darker. They depicted fire and blood. Though Feliciano insisted that they were not showing war.

"It's something else," he said. "But the daemons are dying. Perhaps of some sort of disease? The people seem to mourn them."

"So does she," Alfred said, pointing to the second to last panel. It was The Sleeper again, but her eyes were closed and her hands held small bodies, presumably of the daemons.

The last panel was set up the same as the first. The swirl of robes that clad the Sleeper was the same, though they looked darker and faded. Yet, though the swirl of robes was there, they were empty. No face peaked out from under the scarf. No hands cradled the ball of fire, now a glowing ember in the center of the panel.

"She's gone," Alfred said.

"Yes," said Feliciano. He seemed troubled.

"Where did she go?"

"I don't know."

Alfred sighed, frustrated. "Do you know what this is then? What this whole chamber is about?"

Feliciano looked down and around the room. "It's a timeline. Of some important event that happened a long time ago."

"That's it?" Alfred said. "That's all you have for me? Something important happened a long time ago."

Feliciano flinched under the heat of Alfred's words. "I have some thoughts about what it might be depicting, but that is all I can say for certain."

"I thought you were some great scholar!" Alfred said, not noticing his own voice rising. "I thought you'd be helpful for a change!"

Feliciano looked as it he had slapped him. Alfred immediately regretted his words.

"No," he said, as Feliciano started leaking tears. "I'm sorry, Feli. We know more now than before, right?"

Feliciano nodded but still sniffled.

"I'm sorry for being an ass," Alfred continued. "I just thought, since you know so much about this stuff…"

"It's okay," Feliciano said. "I know the pain of not being able to put the pieces together."

"So we're okay?" Alfred asked, holding out his hand.

Feliciano took it. "Sure. We're okay."

"So what do we do now?" Alfred asked.

Feliciano gave one last sniff and straightened up. "We need to eat. Food makes everything better."

That surprised a little laugh out of Alfred. "All right," he said. "Let's go."

Alfred could still feel Feliciano reeling from the insult Alfred had given him. He wanted to keep apologizing, but figured once was probably enough. He'd just have to try and be more patient.

The two of them chatted about nothing while they ate their lunch. As afternoon crawled on, Alfred's full belly made him sleepy.

"I could use a nap," he said with a yawn.

"Would you mind if I returned to the chamber?" Feliciano asked.

"No. Let me know if you find anything new, okay?"

"I will. Have a good nap."

Alfred was asleep within minutes.

* * *

"What on earth are  _you_  doing here?" a voice shouted, disturbing Alfred from his dozing.

He looked up, and was startled to see Arthur glaring at him. The daemon looked a little haggard. Alfred wondered if he was still recovering from his display of power at the fire.

"Arthur!" he said, getting to his feet. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to hug him or yell at him for his absence. Before he could decide, Arthur continued.

"How did you even find this place?" Arthur demanded. "You're not supposed to be  _able_  to find it."

Alfred shrugged. "I don't know. I was just chasing a rabbit a few days ago and ended up here."

"You were chasing…?" Arthur sighed and put his head in his hands. "I don't why I'm surprised by anything you do anymore."

Just then, a voice came from within the shrine. "Alfred?" called Feliciano. "Are you talking to someone?" He walked out into the misty valley.

"Arthur," Alfred said. Then he looked between the two of them. "Have you two met?"

"Not formally," said Feliciano.

"Where did he come from?" Arthur asked.

Alfred was used to Arthur being prickly, but he seemed to be just on the edge of rage.

"This is Feliciano. He lives with Antonio."

"I know who he is," Arthur snapped. "I'm asking why he's here!"

This was not exactly how Alfred had wanted his reunion with Arthur to go.

"He's a scholar. I wanted him to take a look at the shrine."

"Perhaps Arthur could…" Feliciano started to say.

"No!" Alfred said, shushing him. He didn't want Arthur storming off when he'd finally found him again.

In his haste to quiet Feliciano, Alfred moved his broken wrist and wobbled as it throbbed.

Arthur noticed the splint on Alfred's wrist for the first time.

"What did you do to yourself," he demanded, stalking into Alfred's personal space.

Alfred tried to pull his arm in close, but Arthur deftly caught it and pulled it out to investigate. He frowned, and with practiced movements, felt along Alfred's wrist.

Alfred cried out in pain and while Arthur's rage seemed to evaporate, none of his grumpiness did.

"You smashed it pretty thoroughly, you clumsy, foolish man," Arthur said. "You've set it pretty well, but it could be better." Without asking Alfred or giving him any sort of warning, Arthur unbound Alfred's wrist and did something to it that made Alfred see white.

When he came back from the land of white and agony, he found his wrist rebound and splinted in a way that was noticeably more stable. Arthur was tutting over him, and Alfred realized he had collapsed against him.

"You're not going to vomit on me, are you?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Alfred shook his head to clear it. "No. No. It feels better now."

Arthur nodded. "Then get off me."

It took effort, but Alfred managed to stand on his own. He and Arthur stared at each other for a moment, both frowning.

"I went looking for you," Alfred said finally, not quite managing to keep the hurt from his voice. "Every fortnight for months I looked for you."

Arthur shifted. "Well you found me. Now what do you want?"

Alfred hesitated. He wasn't exactly sure now that he thought about it. "I don't know," he said. "I thought we were friends. I missed you."

"We are friends," Arthur said.

"Then why the silent treatment?" Alfred demanded.

Arthur flinched. "You were pushing too hard," he said after a moment of trying to collect his thoughts. "I couldn't deal with it. And when you wouldn't listen when I told you to stop…I was angry."

"You've been angry for months?"

"Alfred, the gods and daemons have held grudges against each other for hundreds of years. Do you really doubt that I could remain angry for that long?"

Alfred glared in response. Arthur sighed, and some of his prickliness dropped away. "No. I wasn't angry with you the whole time," he grudgingly admitted. "I was…not in a condition to meet with anyone for the past few fortnights."

Alfred put two and two together. "From the magic you used at the fire?" he asked.

Arthur looked up, surprised. "How do you know about that?"

"We were there!" Feliciano called from behind. Both Alfred and Arthur turned, having forgotten he was there. Feliciano took a step back.

"Sorry," he stammered. "I'll not interrupt."

"No," Alfred said, gesturing for Feliciano to come closer. "Sorry. We got a little wrapped up in…us."

Feliciano came to stand by Alfred and stared with wonder at Arthur. Arthur in turn looked rather disconcerted by Feliciano's gaze.

"You were at the fire," Arthur said. "And you saw me?"

Both Alfred and Feliciano nodded. Arthur paled.

"You can't tell anyone about that," he said.

"Why not?" Alfred asked. "What was it? I didn't know you had that sort of power."

"That's the point," Arthur said. "We'll lose our only advantage if that knowledge gets out."

"Advantage?" Alfred said. "Against who?"

"Who have I been at war with for hundreds of years?" Arthur snapped. "The gods! You recall them? Old, self-righteous pricks who are literally immortal."

Alfred and Feliciano looked at each other. "Fine, fine." Alfred said. Feliciano nodded. "We won't tell anyone."

Arthur gave a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell us anything about this shrine?" Feliciano ventured.

Alfred flinched as he said the words.

Arthur's demeanor shifted. There was a flash of pain across his feature that was quickly covered by anger.

"No," he said. "You should drop it."

Alfred watched Arthur, worried he would storm off like he had done months ago. He let himself relax a little when Arthur made no motion to leave.

There was a long pause in which none of them knew what to say. Arthur finally broke the awkward silence.

"So I guess you won't be playing for a while," he said, indicating Alfred's wrist.

Alfred stared at his hand. "Yeah. I guess not. Unless I learned to play with my other hand. And I wouldn't want to inflict that playing on you," he said.

Arthur gave a little laugh. "I hear you play when you first started. I think I could bear anything."

Alfred glared. "That was cruel Arthur. I wasn't that bad when I started playing for you."

"I suppose not," Arthur said, his voice trailing off. After a moment of thinking, he continued. "I suppose you could visit even if you can't play."

Alfred felt a huge grin spreading across his face. "You miss me, don't you?"

Arthur scoffed, but he was still smiling. "Of course not," he said, not even trying to sound convincing.

"Now," Arthur said, his voice growing serious, "You need to leave this place. I can't risk anyone following you here."

Alfred looked at Feliciano. "Is that alright?" he asked.

Feliciano looked at Arthur with apprehension. "Of course. I don't want to upset the high daemon."

Arthur gave overly dramatic, evil laugh, which made Feliciano flinch back. Alfred glared at him as if to say, "Really, Arthur?"

Arthur gave a little shrug and turned and walked away.

"We shouldn't stay. In case he comes back," Feliciano said, clearly frightened.

"Arthur wouldn't hurt us," Alfred said, but started walking. "He was just being a ass to scare you."

Feliciano was quiet until they were out of the mist. Evening was falling, but it was a rare, clear evening on the moors. The two men enjoyed the fading sunlight as they walked. Feliciano became more animated as they put distance between themselves, the shrine and Arthur. He and Alfred talked out loud about She Who Sleeps Below, throwing out hypotheses of increasing imagination and decreasing plausibility.

Finally, as they were settling down for the night, Alfred said, "I just wish we could have gotten more from the shrine."

Feliciano nodded. "If I just had more context, perhaps more would become clear. But the daemons are unwilling to talk, and everything the humans and gods know is locked up in Aenea's library. It's too bad we can't go there."

Alfred thought for a while, then posed his question.

"Why can't we go there?" he asked.

"You mean besides the fact that I am banned for life and if you showed your face there, the dedicates would capture you and never let you leave?"

"What if we snuck in?" Alfred said. The thought made him excited as much as it intimidated him.

"We can't break into the Library of the gods!"

"Feli, I can fly. I bet we could do it."

Feliciano considered this for a long time.

"I will be…bad…if we get caught."

"Then we won't get caught," Alfred said. "You said you found stuff about The Sleeper there, right?"

"That's why they banished me," Feliciano said. "I wouldn't stop my research when they told me too."

"It's the only way we're going to learn anything more."

"There will be guards, and dedicates. So many people who could catch us."

"Is Albion the only town under Aenean watch?" Alfred asked.

Feliciano paused, then shook his head.

"No. There are many inquisitions going on now. The city will be emptier than usual. At least for a little while."

"So if we go now…" Alfred said.

"We'll have more space to work with," Feliciano finished.

The two men grinned at each other. The idea was mad—but despite that (or maybe because of) it filled them both with wild exhilaration.

"You know, Feli," Alfred said. "You're braver than you think you are."


	21. The Library of the Gods

All things, considered, the journey to Aenea went smoothly. Alfred and Feliciano snuck into the inn a couple days after they left the daemon shrine, collected some extra belongings and left a note for Antonio. They told him that they were going to away for a while and apologized for not being able to tell him more.

With their refreshed supplies, they left town in a hurry. The inquisition still seemed thoroughly settled in, and Alfred felt bad for hoping they'd stay put until their quest in Aenea was over.

Aenea was in the heart of the mountains, surrounded by old forests and mountainsides rich in iron ore. With the help of the gods' wisdom, the industrious city had made wide roads through the mountain passes to make travel easier. It was on one of these roads that Alfred and Feliciano traveled. Though they climbed continuously upward, the smooth road made their passage swift.

The late summer sun beat down, and the wilderness was filled with the hum of insects and the chirping of birds. It never got too hot though, especially as they made their way higher into the mountain range. Despite the time of year, the peaks surrounding them were still topped with snow, and the wind occasionally blew a cool draft down.

At a leisurely pace, the trip from Albion to Aenea took a fortnight. Alfred and Feliciano made it to the mountain city in just ten days.

The city was as impressive and imposing as Alfred remembered it. A huge stone wall enclosed the city, and the only way in was through one of the massive iron gates. The stone itself was decorated with intricate iron trappings. It wasn't just a display of wealth. Aenea was in the heart of the high daemon Ivan's territory, and the iron was usually enough to keep daemon attacks from breaking through to the city itself.

"It's been a long time," Feliciano said.

"I was here during the solstice," Alfred said. Feliciano sighed nostalgically.

"Oh, the festival of summer," he said. "That's something I miss. All the mirrors. So much light everywhere. So much free food."

Alfred laughed.

"So you know where we're going once we get inside?" He asked.

Feliciano nodded. "Not all of Aenea revolved around temples and dedicates," he said. "We'll be able to find someplace to stay."

"And as long as no one sees me in my winged boots, I doubt they'll know who I am," Alfred said. He turned to Feliciano. "What about you? I don't suppose they've passed around a drawing of you saying 'banned from Aenea?'"

Feliciano gave a nervous laugh. "I should hope not. I'm not that important, so we should be fine. If we're caught, they'll definitely figure it out though," he said and turned a little pale.

Alfred put his hand on Feliciano's shoulder. "We're not going to get caught, Feli."

With that, they made their way down the road and into the city.

Like Feliciano had said, getting a discreet place to stay wasn't a problem. Since the Summer Solstice festival had come and gone, and many dedicates out working on inquisitions, they had their pick of the inns. Feliciano managed to find seemingly the only one with a southern innkeeper. She seemed happy to have Feliciano there and gave them a fair rate on a two-bed room.

Her food was good, and she and Feliciano chatted as they ate. Alfred listened to the happy babble between the two. That seemed to be something a lot of southerners did: talk quickly and animatedly about nothing and everything.

As the summer sun began to set, the two of them made their way up to their rented room and collapsed. Alfred's body was thrilled to sleep in a bed again. He was asleep within minutes.

* * *

Alfred and Feliciano rose much later than they had on the road. The temple wasn't going anywhere, and loitering around there at odd hours would just be suspicious. So they indulged in a large breakfast with the innkeeper whose name was Mare. As Mare brought out a dish of stewed tomatoes and poached eggs, she sat and joined them.

"So what brings you to the city?" she asked.

"We're looking for—" Feliciano began, but Alfred kicked him under the table.

"We're looking for some friends of mine," Alfred said quickly.

"Oh," Mare said. "I don't suppose they're southern? I know every southerner in the city, and I could help you."

"No," Alfred said, injecting disappointment into his voice. "But thanks. So. We may be out a lot, once we find them."

Catching on, Feliciano nodded vigorously.

Mare gave them a pained smile. "Well, tell them to come here if they need a room."

"We'll do that," Feliciano said sincerely.

"Now we should be going," said Alfred.

"Thank you for the food!" said Feliciano.

The two left the little inn and headed for the temple district. Rising from the center of the city was an enormous temple tower. The Tower of the Sun and Moon was visible from nearly every part of the city, and from there they could easily make their way to all the other temples. Including Circalous' and the library it contained.

Alfred had his winged boots stowed in his bag. He felt them there like a great weight, as if they would leap out of their own accord and draw dedicates to them. Despite his worries, there were few people in the streets, and none of them paid him or Feliciano any mind.

They reached the Tower of the Sun and Moon. After navigating the streets and canals of Drachma, the straightforward roads of Aenea seemed boring. But they found the library of the gods with no difficulty from there.

As they entered, Alfred took the time to scope out the building. On their travels, Feliciano had recited everything he remembered about the library. Like the other temples, there was a tower that housed the main temple. Unlike most of the other temples, a low but expansive building that contained the main library surrounded the tower.

Feliciano said that all the restricted books were kept in the tower itself, and Alfred could see why. There was no way in aside from going in through the main library. Though there were windows in the tower, they were no more than slits to let in some sunlight. Alfred sighed. It was painfully Circalous. Ascetic, depressing, and practical.

The library opened into a large room with some tables, lamps, and many shelves of books. This was the public section, Feliciano had said. There were texts about the gods, books of stories, and books about more practical topics. Alfred was relieved that they weren't the only ones in here. A small number of patrons mulled about the shelves. No one would notice a few more.

Like all buildings in the mountain city, the library had a steeply sloped roof to keep the winter snows from collapsing it.

That meant that the library had rafters. Alfred had learned in his experience flying that people rarely looked up when searching for a stray sound. With the boots in tow, he could easily fly up. It was getting Feliciano up after him that was the challenge.

They needed to be patient, and wait for a natural distraction or time when they were alone in the entry chamber. Unfortunately, patience was neither Alfred nor Feliciano's strong suit.

"Surely there must be something we can do to distract them," Alfred said.

"We'll get caught if they can trace it to us," Feliciano said, just as frustrated. "The moment they start looking for us, we've failed."

They camped out in a corner behind a bookshelf. They were out of sight from the other patrons and the dedicate who watched the entrance to the rest of the library. Every once in a while, Alfred or Feliciano would peek around the corner and spy. The dedicate showed no sign of leaving, though the patrons came and went. Eventually, as the sun set towards evening, it was just the three of them.

Then another voice spoke. Alfred peeked out and saw another dedicate talking to the first.

Even in the quiet, Alfred couldn't make out what they were saying, but the two of them walked back into the library and out of sight.

"Now's our chance," Alfred whispered. He pulled his winged boots from his back and exchanged them for the regular ones he was wearing. With a quiet flutter, he shot up into the shadows of the rafters. He could see more of the library from here, and he could see dedicates sitting and reading in the far library.

He had to move quickly. He reached inside his bag and pulled out a long length of rope they'd taken from Antonio's inn. Alfred secured it around the beam he was sitting on, then tossed it down to Feliciano.

They'd discovered on their journey to Aenea that Feliciano couldn't climb the rope by himself, but he tied it in a harness around his waist and legs then clung to the rope.

Alfred was strong and Feliciano was a small man. It didn't take long for them to settle on the beam.

They waited there, making as little sound as possible until the sun began to set. Alfred figured that the library would probably close then and as long as they remained quiet, no one should notice them once the doors were locked.

Alfred's instincts were good, and once it began to get dark, several of the dedicates made a quick round of the public room. Since they had no reason to suspect anything usual, they didn't even glance up at where Alfred and Feliciano sat.

When all the dedicates had disappeared into the tower, Alfred and Feliciano were finally able to start their infiltration. Alfred lowered Feliciano down and joined him. They spent a few minutes stretching out their limbs and exchanged a few hushed whispers.

"I thought I was going to go crazy," Alfred said. "Who knew a dangerous and exciting adventure could be so boring?"

Feliciano gave a soft moan as he stretched. "I thought I was going to fall. Or I would have taken a nap." He gave a sad sigh and stretched his fingers, which had been a vice grip on the rope Alfred used. "I hope I they still work."

"Well lets get to work," Alfred said. They stayed low and crept up to the desk where the dedicate had sat for hours. Alfred peeked over it. As far as he could tell, this floor was empty. He motioned to Feliciano and the two of them darted past it and into the lengthening shadows beyond.

They were committed now. As they entered the restricted sections, they lost all plausible deniability as to why they were there. Feliciano must have realized the same thing, as he kept glancing back from where they'd come.

"We can't turn back now," Alfred said.

"I disagree," Feliciano said. "We can definitely turn back. And if my life's work weren't all leading up to this, I would already be back at the inn and preparing to go home."

Alfred gave a little dry laugh. "I guess I'm lucky it's important."

"Possibly the most important scholarship of our age."

"So you've said."

They crept along; the light crept up the bookshelves and walls until finally disappearing all together. Alfred hadn't really grasped just how large the building was. He would have been lost in a heartbeat trying to navigate the labyrinth of bookshelves. But he had Feliciano, who, even after several years, knew every turn. As they approached the central tower, Alfred began to hear noises of the inhabitants. Circalous was a reclusive god, and had a small following compared to his counterparts.

"Did you ever think of becoming a dedicate?" Alfred asked.

"To who?" Feliciano said.

"Well, Circalous seems like he'd be a fit for you. You'd have full access to this library, patronage, and a whole community of other scholars."

Feliciano snorted. "It I managed to survive the forty years of scribing. No, these dedicates tend the library and keep track of endless prophesies. There's no room for original scholarship here. And certainly none about daemons."

As evening faded to true night, they had to made their way more slowly so as to not trip or make a lot of noise. Finally, they came to the base of a large spiral staircase that lead up into the dedicates' tower. Though they couldn't make out anything distinctly, the noises of bustling had grown louder and a steady stream of light filtered down from the upper floors.

"What do we do now?" Alfred asked.

Feliciano chewed at his lip.

"If I remember correctly," he started uncertainly. "The first floor we'll encounter on the stairs empties out onto more library. There should be few if any people there right now."

"If you remember correctly?" Alfred hissed back.

If it hadn't been so dark, Alfred would have seen Feliciano flush with nerves.

"It's been years," Feliciano said. "And the last time I was here, I wasn't really paying attention to the available hiding places."

"Fine, okay," Alfred said. "So we'd probably be able to make it if we just snuck up the stairs?"

"Assuming we didn't meet anyone on the stairwell. Or in the open on the tower floor."

Alfred drummed his fingers against the bookcase. It was risky, especially if Feliciano turned out to have misremembered the layout—which Alfred didn't put past him. But on the other hand, what choice did they really have?

As Alfred was pondering, the quiet babble from above vanished behind two voices speaking clearly. Two dedicates descended the stairs with a lantern held between them. They talked of their work mostly—the scribing they'd done earlier that day. Nothing that Alfred found helpful.

As they passed by, the lantern flickered light around the library. It never made it to the shadows where Alfred and Feliciano huddled, but it came close a few times. Sneaking around playing cat and mouse with the dedicates was out of the question. They knew the library far better than Alfred and Feliciano and could call for backup in a heartbeat. Their only option was to remain undetected.

"We've got to try and get up the stairs," Alfred whispered when the dedicates retreated back up the spiral staircase.

Feliciano looked startled. "They could come down at any moment," he said.

"It's a risk we're going to have to take," Alfred said. "We need to get up there."

Feliciano looked unhappy about it, but he finally nodded.

"Let's go," Alfred said, pulling a reluctant Feliciano behind him.

They stayed low and crept along the open floor to the base of the staircase. Alfred paused there, straining his ears. He heard only the dull noise of the bustling dedicates—no clear voices that might indicate someone headed in their direction. Alfred turned back and nodded at Feliciano. With a careful step, he crept up the staircase.

The muffled sounds became louder as they climbed, and it was hard to tell if they were just getting closer or if someone was approaching. Both Feliciano and Alfred jumped a few times when a shout or crash came from above. They didn't encounter anyone as they approached the first tower floor. The stairwell made up the center of the tower, with arched doorways leading off to the rest of the floor. This proved lucky for Alfred and Feliciano as it turned out Feliciano's memory of the tower layout was either outdated or incorrect.

The reason for the clearer voices became apparent as they approached the doorway to the first floor. It turned out that this was not a part of the library but the quarters for most of the dedicates. All of whom bustled about doing their evening activities. Feliciano let out a soft squeak when he realized he had been wrong. Alfred glanced at him, but didn't have any time to be angry or frustrated. A dedicate could decide to come down any minute and find them skulking in the stairwell.

There was nothing for it. Alfred grabbed Feliciano and darted across the opening. Then, trying to stay as quiet as he could, dashed up the remaining steps to the next level. He wasn't going to take the time to find out if they'd been noticed.

The two paused again at the second level, but this one was quiet and dark. It was probably the floor Feliciano had misremembered as the first tower floor. Alfred dragged Feliciano behind him as they disappeared into the maze of bookshelves. Hopefully, even if they had been noticed, they wouldn't be found now.

Alfred let out a sigh of relief and grinned at Feliciano. They had made it. Feliciano still looked like he was going to bolt, so Alfred kept his grasp on his arm.

"We're good for now," Alfred said to Feliciano, trying to soothe him. "Come on, let's get farther away from the stairs," he said.

They navigated the towering bookshelves by the slivers of moonlight the tiny windows allowed in. Near the edge of the tower, they stumbled upon their first real bit of luck. The far wall was lined with empty rooms. Though calling them rooms was a stretch. They were more like cells, probably for if the main quarters ever ran out of beds for the dedicates. There was a small, bare cot pushed up against the wall, a tiny bookshelf, and an ancient chamber pot. The only piece of furniture that didn't live up to the highest ideals of asceticism was the large, oak writing desk that dominated the little room. Alfred sat on the cot, unleashing a cloud of dust.

"This is a perfect base for us to work from!" he said.

Feliciano studied the room and seemed to relax. He made a sound of relief when he swung the heavy door shut. "It locks," he said, tears of gratitude almost audible in his voice.

"It'll be cramped quarters with the two of us here," Alfred said.

Feliciano shrugged. "I don't mind. I've lived in tighter with Lovi and Tonio."

Alfred nodded and wandered over the writing desk. It was bare other than a candle stub. He'd look for something to light it with, along with something to write with and on the next day. Exhausted, he and Feliciano collapsed together on the tiny cot. It was cramped, but not entirely uncomfortable. The room would have been cold without each other's warmth, and so they contentedly drifted off.

* * *

The next few days they fell into a pattern of sneaking and research. Despite his failure to remember the layout of the tower floors, Feliciano had an easy time finding many of the tomes he'd used in his earlier research. Books on daemons were far less uncommon in the library than Alfred would have thought.

Finding books that had any _accurate_ information about daemons turned out to be much more difficult. Any book written in the last few centuries was filled with exaggeration and outright lies about Arthur and his kin that occasionally made Alfred break out in laughter. Feliciano pumped Alfred for his knowledge of the gods and daemons with an efficiency and insight that Alfred hadn't expected from the little man.

Once he'd gotten a better sense of the library, it was Alfred who went searching for the books, leaving Feliciano in their little room to scrutinize the texts. Alfred had an advantage with his flying boots, as he could drift near soundlessly through the tower and search high bookcases without having to drag a heavy ladder across the floor. Dedicates were always a source of worry for them, as they drifted in and around the library at their leisure, which was often at all hours of the night. Alfred had a few close calls, but he thought he'd been able to avoid arousing suspicion.

As they passed a week in the tower, living off provisions from their packs and the occasional risky theft from the dedicates' kitchen, Alfred became frustrated with their progress.

"How long is it going to be until you learn anything useful?" he complained on evening.

Feliciano looked up from the tome he was pouring over. He frowned at Alfred.

"I've learned many useful things," he said. "Just not anything directly about The Sleeper."

Alfred let out a quiet groan. "But that's what we came here to learn!"

"I've learned many things she isn't."

"And how is that remotely helpful?"

Feliciano crossed his arms defensively. "It narrows down what I should look for. It gives me direction," he sighed, frustrated. "Learning what something isn't is often just as important as learning what something is."

"Sure," Alfred said. "If you say so. So what isn't she?"

"She's not a god," Feliciano said thoughtfully. "And I don't think she's a daemon either. At least not the kind that we know of."

Alfred wandered over to the writing desk where Feliciano had several books splayed open. Many of the were ancient, from before the war between the gods and daemons, but not all.

"Why are you bothering with this shit?" Alfred asked, indicating one of the newer tomes. "I thought we decided everything it said about daemons was completely wrong."

"It's what it doesn't say that is of most interest to me," Feliciano said.

Alfred's frustration broke. "We could sit here and talk for weeks about what books don't say!"

Feliciano was not a man who was quick to anger, but his long temper finally showed itself. "This is why you could never be a scholar," he snapped. "You're too caught up in finding the _explanation_ for whatever you want to know that you can't grasp the knowledge that comes from understanding the answer in its whole context."

Alfred stared at Feliciano while Feliciano pointedly returned to his work and ignored Alfred's gaze.

After a short, uncomfortable silence, Alfred felt his own temper cooling.

"Could you maybe explain what you've learned to this never-could-be-a-scholar," he asked, hoping Feliciano would take the peace offering.

A little chuckle escaped Feliciano, and he calmed.

"Of course my boorish friend."

"You wound me, Feli."

"Truth is cruel," Feliciano said with a smile. "Anyway, if you are interested, I can share. I will warn you that I have discovered nothing about The Sleeper—just hints that guide my guesswork."

Alfred nodded, trying to convey his willingness to listen.

"Like you noticed before, there is a stark contrast between texts from before and after the beginning of the First Daemon War."

"Like what?" Alfred asked.

"Before the war, text referred to them with similar deference and respect. There are even some mentions of," Feliciano reddened, "fraternization between the two races."

Alfred blinked, and several pieces clicked into place in his head. "Arthur and Francis. They must have…fraternized…back them."

Feliciano pondered this. "Their particular brand of animosity towards each other certainly fits the motif of betrayed affection."

"Alright, so the gods and high daemons canoodled," Alfred said. "What does that tell us?"

"It gives a picture of the sort of relationships the two races had, or could have. Trust, intimacy."

"And…?"

"There's still no mention of The Sleeper."

Alfred shook his head. "You're going to have to spell it out for me," he said.

"Who ever she was—or is—her existence was secret enough to keep from the gods." Feliciano turned to Alfred, making sure to emphasize his point. "The gods were at worst their allies and at best lovers. What sort of secret do you keep from a lover?"

Alfred thought for a moment, though having never had a lover, he had trouble conceptualizing it. Finally, he offered, "Something dangerous? Or maybe something painful?"

Feliciano nodded adamantly. "That's what I think too."

"So we know what sort of secret we're looking for," Alfred said.

Feliciano picked up where Alfred left off. "Either something that is very dangerous to know, or something that would cause the daemons lasting pain."

"I can't believe you got all of that from something _not_ being mentioned in tomes upon tomes of text."

Feliciano blushed. "It's not much,," he said. "We still don't know anything about The Sleeper."

"But it's a good test for any theory we have. We just need to keep looking!" Alfred said, his enthusiasm renewed. Feliciano beamed at him.

With that, Alfred retrieved his boots, determined to continue scouring the library for anything he and Feliciano could use.

He had only been out for a few minutes when he heard many footsteps coming up towards him. As they approached, he could make out some words.

"Someone's here alright," said a woman. "Books are missing, food scraps snatched, and some of the junior dedicates reported hearing noises from this floor at night."

 _Shit_ Alfred thought. He needed to get back to the room, bolt the door and wait for the suspicion to ebb away.

Alfred spun, intending to bolt back to their cell, but didn't account for his momentum. He hit one of the shelves hard, and books tumbled down. The noise was atrocious.

Nearly in a panic, Alfred flew back to the cell. He collided with the door, and half shouted to Feliciano.

"They know we're here, Feli," said Alfred. "They're coming."

There was a shuffling from the other side of the door, and instead of opening, Alfred heard the bolt slide into place.

"Feli?" Alfred said. "Feli, you locked the door."

"I'm sorry," came a terrified squeak from beyond the door.

"Feli!" Alfred shouted. "Open the door. Come on, they'll find me here."

The closed door stared him in the face, silent.

It took a moment for Alfred to realize what the silence meant.

"You fucking coward!" Alfred shouted. "You useless, fucking coward!"

Well, Alfred wasn't a coward, and he knew what the thundering steps behind him meant. He let out a wordless shout of rage and turned. For a moment, Alfred thought about letting the dedicates catch him and then giving them Feliciano's location in return for the stupid coward's betrayal. But Alfred dismissed that thought. He was better than Feliciano, and if he wanted to hide and let Alfred take the fall, so be it.

Alfred would lead them on a merry chase.


	22. The Room of Golden Books

What Alfred had hoped would be a merry chase was actually far more of a merry, "barrel into the chest of an unfairly large dedicate." Without the merry part either.

As he dashed away from Feliciano, a large group of dedicates poured out of the stairwell. Alfred had no time to react, and slammed into the one leading the charge. It sent them both sprawling across the floor, but the dedicate was quick enough to grasp Alfred in a bear hug and not let go.

Alfred was carried down to the chambers where a group of dedicates held him down as others tied him to a chair. Though he squirmed with all his might, Alfred could not escape. The dedicates pried his boots off—though Alfred managed to give one a good kick in the face.

Once he was thoroughly restrained, the dedicates stepped back. Some had to catch their breath, which gave Alfred a small sense of satisfaction. They looked at each other uncertainly. Clearly, they'd never had an intruder like this before. Alfred imagined library heists weren't a particularly common problem.

Finally, a dedicate in a dull grey cloak—much like the one Circalous himself wore—stepped forward. She was tall, even taller than Alfred, and glared down at him like he was a cornered mouse and she a bird of prey. Age had stretched her mouth into a permanent frown, which even the loose curls of white hair framing her face failed to soften.

Her small, bright eyes flicked from Alfred, to the winged boots, to the dedicate he'd kicked in the face, and back to Alfred.

"You're Arlya's boy," she said. It wasn't a question.

When Alfred didn't answer, the woman's frown deepened. A feat that impressed Alfred.

Some of the younger dedicates began murmuring at the woman's words.

"Should we untie him?" a young man asked. "If he's one the god favors—"

"No," the woman said sharply. She stepped forward and grabbed Alfred's face. He could feel her fingernails digging into his chin. She dragged his face up so their eyes were locked. Whatever she saw in him left her unimpressed.

"Alfred," she said. "I am Augusta, the first of the god of prophecy's dedicates. This is my library."

Alfred stayed silent and continued to glare at Augusta. After a while, she sighed and continued.

"What were you doing?" she asked.

Alfred shrugged. "Catching up on my reading."

Augusta raised her eyebrows. "Catching up on your reading?"

"That's what I said."

"The gods have libraries," Augusta said, humoring him. "We have many books available to the public."

"I read them all," said Alfred with a grin.

"All of them? That's quite impressive."

Alfred shrugged again. "I'm a fast reader."

Augusta made a disgusted noise. "Why were you really here?" she demanded.

Alfred tried to plaster the most innocent expression he could on his face. "I told you," he said. "Do you not believe me?"

"I know you were banished from Caelei. I know the gods have abandoned you for now."

Alfred frowned. He guessed it made sense for the gods to tell their dedicates about his treason, though he had just sort of assumed that they'd keep it quiet.

"And now you show up here. You'd only come here searching for knowledge that was either ancient, forbidden, or extremely dangerous. Now. You _will_ tell me what you were searching for."

"I told you," Alfred said, "Just a bit of light read—" a crack echoed through the room as Augusta slapped Alfred across the face.

"What were you looking for?" she asked again.

Alfred's cheek stung, but it just made him feel a little giddy. "I told you, lady."

 _Crack_. Another slap. This time across the other cheek.

"Dedicate Augusta?" a small voice said. "He is Lady Arlya's son. Perhaps hurting him is not wise?"

"She's not wrong," Alfred said cheerfully. "Last time she thought someone was hurting me, she showed up with Pakram's flaming sun sword and tried to kill him."

Augusta stilled at this, then a smile that Alfred really didn't like spread across her wrinkled face.

"Perhaps you're right," she said. "Buy why don't we ask her in person?"

Alfred felt the blood drain from his face.

_Shit._

Alfred was thrown into a cell much like the one he and Feliciano had shared for the past week. The notable difference was that this one locked from the outside. Alfred stretched his shoulders, which were sore from being tied down. He needed a plan. He wasn't sure what Arlya would do, and that was the problem. Half-formed plans appeared and disintegrated in his head as he tried to figure out just how she'd react to his situation. Each sound outside the door made him jump. It was then that Alfred realized that he was scared of Arlya.

Ever since she had tried to kill Arthur, things had been different between them. Before Arlya had just been his mother. She loved him, was occasionally overbearing, and more often then not treated him like he was still a little child. But the fever-bright gleam in her eyes as she tried to skewer Arthur on an enormous burning sword made him shudder. It made him think of what might happen if she decided he wasn't her child anymore.

The bold on the door slide open with a thunk. Alfred turned to see Augusta enter, flanked by several elderly dedicates. Behind them, drifting into the room like snow caught in a breeze, was Arlya.

She took one look at Alfred and ran over to him, clutching him so tight it hurt. Alfred allowed himself to relax, just a bit. She hadn't come with a sword after all. At a loss of what to do, he hugged her back. It felt nice, right even, to be held like this. Arlya was so tall that Alfred did feel like a child again.

"Oh, my baby," Arlya cooed. "Everything is going to be alright now."

Alfred didn't say anything, just clung to her.

After a long embrace, Arlya sat Alfred down on the bed.

"Alfred," she said. "I need to know why you're here."

Alfred glanced behind Arlya at Augusta. Arlya followed his glance and frowned. "She's a friend, Alfred. We just want to help you."

For a brief moment, Alfred considered telling them everything. About Albion, about the ancient temple in the mist, and his and Feliciano's search for She Who Sleeps Below. After all, besides the daemons, who would know better than the gods?

But he stopped himself before the words came rushing out. He remembered the strange inconsistencies in the texts he and Feliciano had searched through. How the gods and their followers had distorted the daemons to make them creatures out of nightmares. Arlya herself had ingrained those sorts of stories deep in Alfred's mind as he grew up. Even though she knew that most of what she told him was an outright lie.

He couldn't trust her. He couldn't trust any of the gods, except maybe Francis.

"I told her," Alfred said, indicating Augusta. "I just came to do some reading."

Arlya's face stayed perfectly smooth, but Alfred saw a hint of frustration form in her eyes.

"Of course," she said, her voice as warm and safe as ever. "But what about?"

Alfred shrugged. "This and that."

"Alfred," Arlya said patiently, "We're not going to be mad at you. There are dangerous things in this library. We just need to know so we can keep you safe."

Alfred looked at Arlya and stayed silent.

Disappointment flooded her beautiful face. Alfred thought he might have seen anger too, but it was gone so fast he wasn't sure.

After a long silence. Alfred dared to speak. "Are we going to go then?"

Arlya looked at Alfred as if her heart was breaking. "We can't. Not unless you tell us why you came here."

When Alfred said nothing. She approached him again and cradled him to her chest. Alfred didn't reciprocate the gesture this time. "Then you'll just have to stay here until you're ready to share," she said.

Abruptly, she found Alfred's injured wrist. It had been a few weeks since the break, and it was healing reasonably well. Arlya prodded at it, feeling around the break. It was uncomfortable, but not agony.

She tutted. "This won't heal right at all," she said. With a sudden jerk, she yanked his wrist and pulled it towards her with surprising strength. There was an audible crack, and Alfred cried out. He collapsed on the bed, waves of nausea, threatening to overcome him.

Arlya stood, frowning down at Alfred as if he had made her do this.

"I'll be back soon, my baby," she said. "Maybe you'll be more willing to help your mother."

With that, they were gone, and Alfred as locked in the room once more.

* * *

Time passed in a haze of pain and boredom. Alfred could make a reasonable guess at the time from the quality of light that drifted through the narrow slit in the wall. However, it wasn't long before he lost track of how many days had passed. He could find nothing to stabilize his newly broken wrist, and so every time he moved his wrist pulsed with pain.

After just enough time had passed that the agony had dulled to constant throbbing, Arlya appeared again.

Alfred jumped, jostling his wrist as the bolt on the door slide open. Arlya rushed in, just as she had the first time. She embraced him, and the affection after so long of being locked in a room made him melt inside. He returned the hug gratefully and sighed with relief in her arms.

Arlya stroked his hair, murmuring soothing nothings to Alfred. Gingerly, she took his swollen wrist and retrieved a bottle of a thick salve from her robe pocket.

"This looks like it hurts," she said, rubbing the salve onto his wrist. It felt blissfully cold on Alfred's inflamed skin.

"That's much better," he said. For the first time since he'd been locked in the room, he felt his mind able to focus on something other than the pain.

"I thought this might help."

They sat quietly for a while, neither talking. Alfred found his eyes tearing with the relief the salve brought him. He wiped them away with his uninjured hand.

"Can we talk?" Arlya said. She sounded anxious.

"Sure," Alfred said.

"It's just. I felt terrible after last time we spoke," her voice trembling. "I would have come sooner, but I just couldn't face you hating me after what I did to you."

Tears gleamed as they slid down her face, plopping onto her lap.

"I don't hate you," Alfred said. How could he, with the soothing coolness spreading over his arm, easing the pain?

"I was just so angry," she said. "I didn't want to be. I'm your mother. I never want to be angry with you."

"I'm sorry," Alfred said.

"I just wish you'd see things from my perspective," Arlya said. "I've given you everything—love, protection, everlasting youth, a mother."

"I know."

"I just didn't think it was so much for you to answer a few simple questions."

"I'm sorry," Alfred repeated guiltily.

"Are you?" Arlya asked. "Are you really?"

"I didn't mean to make you angry," Alfred said.

"So now will you tell me? What were you looking for here?"

Once again, Alfred almost told her everything. It would almost be worth it for more of the affection she offered. Alfred was sure if she told her, she'd take him back to Caelei. Where he could spend time with Francis and Kiku and never have to spend time locked in a tower again.

But what was Caelei but just a slightly bigger tower?

"I can't tell you," he said.

Arlya's face contorted. Her tears remained, but now they were tears of rage.

Even Alfred could read the change in the atmosphere.

"Can we just go and forget all about this?" he said, trying to mollify her.

With a wordless shout, Arlya hurled the vial of salve at the wall, missing Alfred's head by a hair.

"You ungrateful, willful boy!" she screeched. Alfred tried to twist out of the way as she sprang for him, but he was no match for the god's tall stature. She pinned him to the bed and grabbed him as he struggled. She went for his injured wrist again, wiping off the slave and wringing it like a chicken's neck.

There was a loud series of pops and Alfred screamed. The last thing he remembered before he passed out was the feeling of Arlya's soft fingers running through his hair.

* * *

It became some nightmarish routine. Alfred would lie in the cot, subsisting on rations from the dedicates. He drifted between nightmares and long stretches of insomnia. Every time the pain in his wrist started to die down, Arlya would appear. She would make a dramatic entrance begging for Alfred's forgiveness and offering a short respite from the pain and boredom. Then the conversation would inevitably turn to what Alfred had come to the library to learn. Every time she came, Alfred came closer to telling her. When he didn't, Arlya snapped and continued to destroy Alfred's left wrist.

Then the cycle started over.

Alfred had lost track of how long he'd been there, and how many times Arlya had come. It was difficult to tell which visits had been real and which were just nightmares recreating the events.

Arlya's visit was approaching, and Alfred was sure that he'd spill everything this time. Anything to get out of this room. Anything to have a proper splint.

The lock on the door slide open with a familiar thunk that made Alfred feel sick to his stomach. He curled in on himself, bracing for the inevitable. But there was no rush of feet, no soft form draping itself over him in apology and regret.

"Fucking hell," said a familiar voice. "It reeks in here!"

Alfred rolled over and found himself looking at the last person he expected to see here.

"My land is filled with bogs and it still smells better than you," said Arthur. He stood in the doorway with his cloak pulled over his nose.

Alfred let out a weak laugh that wouldn't stop. He lay on his back, giggling helplessly while Arthur stared at him. Finally, when he got himself under control he grinned at Arthur from behind his sweat-soaked hair.

"Sorry my captors don't empty the chamber pot as often as you'd like."

Arthur let his cloak fall. He wrinkled his nose but strode forward anyway. Alfred let out a little groan as Arthur sat down beside him.

"You're a right mess," Arthur said.

"And you're a sight for sore eyes," Alfred said. "Why are you here?"

"To get you out, you dolt."

Alfred nodded. "I guess that's obvious. But how? How did you know where to find me? Or even that I was in trouble."

"Feliciano," Arthur said.

"Bastard," Alfred spat.

"He managed to get back to Albion. It took him some time to find me, but he was rather determined to save you."

"If he hadn't been such a fucking coward, I might not have needed to be saved."

"Or you could have both been captured," Arthur said.

"Don't defend him."

"I'm not," Arthur said, "I'm just stating possibilities."

Alfred groaned. Arthur looked him over, worry in his eyes. He swore when he laid eyes on Alfred's wrist.

"Stars and stones, Alfred. What happened?"

"Arlya," Alfred said. "Whenever I wouldn't tell her why I came here she'd do something new to it."

"Shit," Arthur said. "Feliciano said you might be hurt, but I wasn't prepared to deal with a torture victim."

"She just lost her temper," Alfred said. He didn't know why he was defending her, only that he felt compelled to give her side. "She wasn't herself."

Arthur stared at Alfred. Alfred shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not defending her," he said. "I just want to be clear she wasn't in control. It's not her fault I made her so angry."

"Alfred, she broke your already injured wrist. Repeatedly."

"So?"

"If she was out of control, you would be black and blue. This is a precision strike it takes planning and intention."

Alfred said nothing to that. Arthur let the silence hang for a while. Eventually, he returned his attention to the pouch at his side. There were bunches of herbs wrapped in bundles of moss.

"These is works better when brewed in tea, but we don't have time," Arthur said, unwrapping several of the bundles. He gave Alfred a handful of various leaves and roots, followed by a strip of bark.

"Chew," he ordered. "It'll help the pain and nausea."

It felt gross chewing on a bunch of raw plants, but Alfred did as he was told. Arthur swore as he turned his attention to Alfred's wrist. He had supplies for splinting laid out, but he seemed unsure of how best to go about it.

"She really did a number on you," Arthur said. "I…I don't know how much use of this you'll get back."

"Doesn't matter right now," Alfred said through a mouthful of chewed plants. "I just need to get out of here."

Arthur nodded and set about stabilizing the breaks the best he could. Alfred sighed in relief once it was set and cushioned by the cool moss.

"Alright, now spit those out," Arthur said. "How are you feeling?"

"Awful," Alfred said. "Which is a big step up from before."

Arthur gave a small laugh. "Come on, Smelly. Lets get you out of here."

"How are we going to get out?"

"Up," Arthur said. "There'll be less resistance that way."

"And also no way out?"

Arthur gave Alfred a cocksure grin. "Alfred, I'm a high daemon. Have a little faith."

Alfred got to his feet and wobbled. Arthur caught him by the arm and steadied him, but Alfred shook him off.

"I'm fine," Alfred said. "Let's go."

How Arthur had managed to sneak past the dedicates on his way in, Alfred could only guess. But they were making no effort at stealth now, relying only on speed and surprise to get them out. Their feet pounded down the hall towards the staircase. Heads poked out into the hall at the racket, but most were taken so off guard that they didn't react. A shouted alarm went up and spread through the library like wildfire. By the time Alfred and Arthur reached the doorway to the staircase, a sizable group of dedicates stood in their path.

Arthur pushed Alfred to the side and put himself between Alfred and the dedicates. They charged him at once, but these were scholars and scribes, not soldiers or warriors. Arthur planted his feet, centering his balance and waited. The dedicates all charged at once, trying to overwhelm Arthur with their superior number. But Arthur had a lot of experience fighting whilst outnumbered. He moved between the charging dedicates like water, and used their unskilled momentum to send the three men and two women sprawling down the hall behind him or into the wall.

While they tried to regain their feet, Arthur circled back around and grabbed Alfred. When they were in the stairwell, they heard a commotion from down below. They must have gathered what had happened, as they were piling in the stairwell on the floor below them.

As much as Arthur could fight outnumbered, there was no way he could break through the mass that was forming on the lower levels. With Alfred close behind him, they charged up, leaving the throng behind them.

At the top of the staircase there was a heavy iron door. Unable to slow, Alfred and Arthur ran into it. Arthur yelp in surprise and pain as the cold iron of the door burnt into his skin. He sprang back and cursed.

"Someone doesn't want daemons in there," Arthur said. He looked to Alfred. "Can you open it?"

The door was heavy, but Alfred managed to push it open. Arthur slipped inside and Alfred followed. Alfred shoved the door closed behind him, and to his surprise, found that he could bolt the door behind him. For good measure, Alfred and Arthur dragged a nearby bookshelf in front of the door. As they turned away, Arthur slunk down, breathing heavily.

"Arthur?" Alfred said. "You hurt?"

Arthur stared at his hands and arms where they had touched the iron door. They were blistered as if they had been severely burnt. Arthur sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"I'll be fine," he said. "Just give me a moment."

"Sure. Take you're time," Alfred said. There was no way even all the dedicates working together were going to break into this room any time soon. The chamber they were in was built like a fortress.

Alfred took a moment to take in his surroundings. The room was odd—it gave the impression of both an impenetrable fortress and a decorated temple. The door that he and Arthur had barricaded was the only entrance into this chamber. Like the rest of the tower, the walls were lined with thin slit windows. Unlike the rest of the tower windows, glass and thin metal bars covered the little openings.

But perhaps most spectacular and intriguing was the ceiling. The tower, like the others in Aenea, tapered as it rose but ended in a flat roof. In other towers, this could be used to light watch fires or station archers, but the roof of this tower was different. Rather than the ceiling Alfred expected, he looked up into the evening sky through the clearest pane of glass Alfred had ever seen. It stretched all the way across the tower roof.

In the evening glow, the chamber shone golden. It took Alfred a moment to realize that this was partially because many of the books kept here were bound in gold leaf. Some of the books looked like they could have been a thousand years old.

"What is this place?" Alfred said, walking between the rows of golden books. In addition to the enormous tomes, smaller books and scrolls filled the room. Alfred peaked in some of those smaller ones. They were filled with what looked like page references and scribbled notes.

"I think it's Circalous' chamber of prophecies," Arthur said. "I've heard about it, but never seen it for myself."

Alfred stopped at one of the enormous golden books. He opened it to a random page and started reading. The text was written by many different hands, though all of them were precise and easy to read. Next to many of the entries were notes, most written by a different person than had written the entry. They seemed to indicate a complicated cataloging system.

One entry caught his attention.

_Do not fear, for your daughter's shall be safe so long as she remains in the tower. It is her fate to die only when she leaves._

Next to the original entry there was a note: _Referring the Lemuria and the fall of its royal family. Index: 1._

"Hey Arthur," Alfred said. "Come look at this."

Alfred showed him the entry.

Arthur read it. "It's about Elaine."

"From the story?"

"It would see so."

"So it really happened?" Alfred asked.

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know how true the story is to history, but Elaine and Lemuria were real. She died just after the fall of the kingdom."

Alfred looked between the entry and Arthur. "You're saying the prophecy was true?"

Arthur gave a little snort. "Alfred, we are standing in the hall of prophecy. Why would so many people dedicate their lives to recording and tracking down prophecies if they weren't real?"

"I don't know!" Alfred said. He flipped through the pages, landing on a new entry.

_From the fields burnt and salted, the prince of crafts will be plucked as a reluctant lover. Though locked in a gilded prison, he will find joy in mechanical mastery never before conceived in mortal minds._

Beside it was another note: _Refers to Heracles taking the mortal Prince Kiku as his consort._ _Index: 1._

"What on earth…" Alfred said, trailing off. "Kiku's in here."

Arthur joined Alfred and read the entry over his shoulder. "I remember that war," he said. "It was only a few hundred years ago."

"So it was prophesized that Kiku would live with the gods?" Alfred asked.

"It seems so."

Alfred left the book and walked to a new one. The entries in this tome must have been more recent, as there were fewer with notes indicating their completion. One of these notes ones jumped out at Alfred.

_The coward, courageous only in his curiosity, will be cast out from the embrace of Caelei. He flees the consequences, and finds contentment in simplicity. But it is not to last. Caught in conflict he can't comprehend, he will conquered by his complacency and bring ruin to his companions. Index: 1._

There were no notes by this entry, but Alfred knew to whom it referred all the same. It was written in this very book that Feliciano, even here called the coward, would betray him.

"So it's real?" Alfred asked.

"You'll have to be more specific," Arthur said. He was examining the walls and ceiling of the chamber, looking for any weak spot he could exploit.

"Fate. That everything we do will lead us to a set outcome?"

"I've tried to tell you that before," Arthur said.

"So why do we do anything?" Alfred asked, distressed. "Why do we try to make anything better?"

"Because there's nothing else we can do," said Arthur. He had a melancholy look about his as he spoke. "It's like the weather, or the seasons. They will happen, even if the spring comes a little later or earlier than usual. It does not matter what we want, they will come to pass."

"But you can change the weather," Alfred said. He realized he was clutching at straws, but the whole idea of Fate being really Real filled him with anger and distress.

Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes. "It was an analogy. And even so, I can only do a very small amount in the grand scheme of things."

Alfred turned back to the tome. The more he looked, the more familiar events popped out at him. Could Arthur be correct? Was the entire story of the world already written in these golden tomes?

As he neared the end of the tome, the more Alfred was convinced it was true. There were just too many uncanny accuracies.

He stopped at once entry near the middle of the tome. It was one of the few that had notes written by it. In fact, it had about twice as many notes by it as there was of the actual prophecy. And many of them contained his name.

_Daemons howl and pierce our very core,_

_As order crumbles—Gods, your power wanes!_

_Now time grows still, a breath before the war_

_When Moon will spatter blood o're silent plains._

_But plucked from mountain snows will he be brought_

_To mountains on the sky, to Caelei, God-home._

_He shall here learn the world, and dreams, and thought,_

_Though whispers in the sky call his blood to roam._

_A gift the gods give naught shall his guide be_

_Though deep he shall fall, down to daemon's heart._

_Returned from purgatory, eyes ready to see,_

_He'll take up metal cold to play his part._

_Against this chaos he will lead the quest:_

_The final vict'ry by steel of th' God-Blest._

_Index: 1._

Along the margins of the prophecy itself, notes mentioned him and drew connections between his life and the words of the prophecy.

"This can't be real," he said.

"What is it?" Arthur asked, looking over his shoulder. Alfred slammed the book shut.

"Nothing! Just some stupid prophecy nonsense."

Arthur looked at him with worry in his eyes. Alfred tried to process everything he had read.

It wasn't even vague like some prophecies. Alfred didn't have to stretch anything to make it fit his life. It was about him. But all the talk of cold metal and steel meant there was only one way he was going to bring about the end of the war. Somehow, according to the prophecy, he was going to kill the daemons. He was going to kill Arthur.

Arthur made to pat Alfred's shoulder, but Alfred batted his hand away.

"Don't," he said.

Arthur looked hurt, but stepped back. "Alright, Alfred. Just tell me what's going on?"

This couldn't be happening. Arthur was his friend. The last thing Alfred wanted to do was hurt him, let alone murder him.

But the prophecy was burned into his mind. He couldn't unsee it. It made all the incomprehensible actions of the gods make sense. They hadn't killed him for treason because they _knew_ he would. They knew he would return to fulfill his destiny.

He had to get Arthur away from here. He didn't know how it would happen, but it would. Alfred would literally be the death of him.

"You have to go," Alfred said, backing up.

"Yes, and you're coming with me," Arthur said. "That's the whole point of this 'escaping' thing."

"No," Alfred said, and it came out choked. "I can't stay with you."

Arthur frowned. "What did you read?"

"It doesn't matter," Alfred said. "Just go!" He turned back to the door and the barricade. As he was trying to shove the bookcase aside, Arthur approached. He put his hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"Alfred, I need you to talk to me," Arthur insisted. Alfred shook his head, a lump forming in his throat.

"Yes," Arthur said, shaking him slightly. "You clearly read something that upset you, and you're going to tell me what it was."

"It's for your own good," Alfred said. "You're happier not knowing."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, though his hand stayed gentle on Alfred's shoulder. "That's not your call to make," he said. "Is it about me?"

"Sort of."

"Then I deserve to know!" Arthur said, frustrated.

Alfred caved. Arthur was right. He had no right to withhold the truth.

"I'm going to kill you," he said softly.

"You're going to what?" Arthur asked.

"Kill you!" Arthur said with a wail. "Or maybe not you personally, but the daemons."

"There was a prophecy that said that?"

"In no uncertain terms."

Arthur chewed on his lip, mulling over that information.

"And you want to leave?"

"No. And I don't want to kill you. But you've said yourself, that we can't defy Fate."

Arthur nodded. "I have lived much longer than you, and seen the iron fist Fate keeps on us all."

"So I have to stay away from you. Maybe I will end up killing the daemons, but it doesn't have to be soon."

Arthur looked pensive. "I don't know if that will work," he said. He hesitated before continuing. "But I do not want to die," he confessed.

That made up Alfred's mind. "Then I'm leaving. Going back to Caelei. Maybe from there I can keep this stupid war stalled for a long, long time."

" _She's_ up there," Arthur said. "I don't want to send you back to her."

"I can deal with Arlya," Alfred said with a shrug. "Once I'm back she'll be happy with me again."

"And when she decides she's not happy with you anymore?"

Alfred hesitated. "I'll figure out how to keep her happy."

Arthur started to say something, stopped and then kept going. "If you're in trouble, get Francis to help you." He looked like the words pained him as they came out. "He's good to have at your back in a pinch."

Alfred stared at him. It was a struggle to get a good word out of Arthur about anyone, let alone his former lover. He must really be worried.

Alfred lunged forward and hugged Arthur, who squawked in surprise.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said.

Alfred was surprised when Arthur returned his embrace just as fiercely. "I know. But sometime we must follow Queen Elaine and leave the tower."

"We'll make sure to do it on our own terms then. Like she did," said Alfred. He pulled back, releasing Arthur. "Now get out of here."

"Farewell, Alfred," Arthur said. Then he was gone.

Alfred managed to get the bookcase out of the way. When he opened the door. Dedicates rushed in.

Alfred stood there, surrounded, unarmed, and alone.

He said, "I wish to speak to my mother."


	23. A New Weapon for a New Age

When Arlya appeared for the final time, she found Alfred sitting on the cot, waiting for her. His hands were folded in his lap, the right bracing the left. He looked at her with clear eyes, a stark contrast to her earlier visits, when he had drifted in cloudy misery.

"The dedicates tell me a strange story," she said.

Alfred nodded. "I'm sure they did."

"And they said you asked for me. Is that true?"

"It is. I wanted to speak with you."

Alfred kept his tone even and serious. Arlya sighed. What had happened to her little boy? The world had been cruel to him. She hated the downward pull of his mouth, the creases in his brow as he thought over everything. She hated how he looked at her like he was trying to determine if she was a friend or enemy.

Alfred, for his part, had been pondering what he would say to Arlya as he waited. He knew he was a terrible liar, and so in the end settled on a collection of partial truths. He would tell her all he could except about the most important things: She Who Sleeps Below, and his plan to stall the daemon war.

"I would like to hear what you have to say," Arlya said. "They tell me a high daemon broke in here."

Alfred nodded. "He was going to break me out."

"Yet here you are," she said.

"I came across some new information," Alfred said. "A prophecy."

Arlya tilted her head, listening. Alfred continued.

"It said that I would bring about the end of the Daemon war. Or at least the dedicates seem convinced it's about me."

"It is," Arlya said. "How much do you know about the day your were born?"

Alfred thought for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. "Only what you've told me," he said. "That you saved me."

Arlya nodded. "You were such a little thing," she said, her eyes soft with memory. "You were born during the darkest night or the year. For the gods, it's a cursed day, when our power diminishes to nearly nothing. Since you were born during that cursed time, you were left to die."

"And you found me."

Arlya sat beside Alfred and stroked his hair. "I found you. I snatched you up and saved you," she said, her voice reminding Alfred of when Arlya told him stories when he was little. "When we returned to Caelei, I asked Circalous if he could see anything in your future. And what he saw was what you read."

"So there's no way it isn't about me," Alfred asked, a tiny light of hope dying in his chest.

"No. Bringing us victory is what you are meant to do," said Arlya. "You are destined for greatness, my sweet. You are fated to be a hero!"

"And fate leads us all," said Alfred, defeated.

"Indeed."

Alfred let out a long sigh. He didn't want to admit it, but Arlya's touch on his head was soothing and eased his growing headache.

"I'm ready to come home," he said. It wasn't true, but anything was better than being trapped here.

Arlya raised her eyebrows. "Does that mean you're ready to tell me what you were doing here?"

Alfred flinched. It was time for his string of half-truths. He had to hope Arlya didn't press too hard.

"Daemons," he said after a long pause. "I wanted to know more about daemons."

"You could have asked any of us," Arlya said.

Alfred shook his head. "No. I couldn't have. I needed to see for myself," he explained. "I knew that things had been different before they stole Francis' music—"

"They have always been wild, deceitful creatures," Arlya interrupted. "Bringers of chaos."

"I know," Alfred said, trying to placate her. "I know, but I wanted to see what people said about them before. And this was the only place I could find anything about them."

Arlya studied Alfred for a long time, and Alfred felt a trickle of sweat down his back. Did she believe him?

Finally, she let her stare drop and she nodded.

"And what did you find out?" she asked.

"Very little," Alfred said, letting his genuine frustration with the situation color his words. "That you were once uneasy allies. That Francis and Arthur used to be lovers."

Arlya made a disgusted sound. Alfred forced himself to chuckle along with her, hoping to continue to satisfy her. It seemed to work, as Arlya seemed to lose interest in his findings.

"You want to go home then?" she asked. "The war is ending, and you will be fighting in it if you return."

Alfred stared at his hands. "It's my fate," he said. "I don't see any reason to keep running from it." Another lie. Alfred would do everything to postpone that fate as long as possible. But though Alfred wasn't a good liar, the words must have been exactly what Arlya wanted to hear.

Arlya threw her arms around Alfred. "I knew you'd see reason eventually," she said.

Alfred stiffened at the contact, but tried not to show it. He hugged her in return, hoping she wouldn't sense his ulterior motives. She broke the embrace and took Alfred gently by the arm. In a moment, they were at the gates of Caelei.

Alfred shivered. Caelei probably wasn't any colder than usual, but Alfred had grown used to the summer days. The air in Caelei was still and smelled faintly of metal. It chilled him in a way even the cold mists of the moors hadn't. Arlya left him on the steps of his bedroom. It was open to the air and much larger than his room at Antonio's inn.

The room was untouched since he'd left. The large bed was unmade and sheets of music were scattered on the floor. Alfred cringed. His lyre was still with Antonio in Albion. At least it was someplace safe.

Not that he could really play it anymore, Alfred thought, starting at his left hand. It was starting to hurt again as the medicine to stop the pain wore off. The wrist was swollen and lumpy. He could barely move his fingers, even if he ignored the pain it caused him. The first break might have been fine—it was clean and had been set right away. But after the damage Arlya had inflicted, there was no way he would ever get anything more than minimal use out of that hand.

It was the first moment Alfred actually had time to think about that. He's probably never be able to play again. His chest tightened, and he tried to swallow it down, but it stuck. Hot tears trickled down his nose and plopped onto his hands.

Alfred had never grieved before. He did now, for his lost music, for his lost friends back in the mortal realm, and for himself and the fate he didn't want.

* * *

Alfred woke on his bed. He must have collapsed with exhaustion earlier. The knot in his chest hadn't left, but had loosened enough so he could breath. Alfred glanced around the room, feeling like an intruder in someone else's home.

Alfred gasped. By the edge of the bed were his winged boots. He climbed over the bed and grabbed them, hugging the worn leather and fluttering wings to his chest. At least he wouldn't be doomed to wander lost in the canyons of the god-realm again.

Along one edge of the room was a large chest and wardrobe. Alfred searched through it, and stripped his filthy clothes for his old ones. Though the clothes were of finer quality than what he had been leant in the mortal realm, Alfred still felt uncomfortable. It was as if these clothes belonged to someone else, and he was stealing them. But that was ridiculous. Alfred shook off the feeling and slipped his boots on. He needed to talk to Francis.

Francis was where he often was, tending his towering roses next to the sprawling chambers in which he lived. He didn't seem surprised when Alfred alighted beside him.

"So you return," he said, his voice expressionless.

"That's all you have to say?" Alfred asked. "Not even a 'Welcome home!' or 'How was the mortal realm?' or 'how are you coping with being ripped away from all your friends and being caged again?'"

"No,' Francis said, not taking his eyes from the plants he was tending. But after a moment he added, "But I do have a different question for you."

"Oh?" Alfred said sourly.

Francis kept fussing at the roses with his hands, but Alfred saw his eyes dart around. After a long pause, he said, "Have you regaled your mother with your adventures in the mortal world?"

Alfred frowned. "You make it sound like I'm the hero of one of your ballads," Alfred said.

Francis chuckled. "All tales begin in truth," he said. "How much remains truth, we may never know for certain."

Alfred chewed on that for a little, then glanced around as Francis had. Francis' garden was on a hill not far from the court of the gods. Though Alfred and Francis spoke in quiet voices, Caelei was silent but for the noises caused by its denizens, and sound could travel far in the silent canyons.

"Mother was pleased with my tale," Alfred said, choosing his words carefully. "You would have disliked it, not nearly enough intrigue, mystery, or passion for you."

Francis raised his eyebrows, then gave Alfred a small nod. "How dull," Francis said, with a loud sigh. Finally, he looked up from the flowers and took in Alfred with his full attention. His eyes fell on Alfred's wrist, which he was unconsciously cradling.

Alfred followed Francis' gaze and winced. He tucked his hand out of sight. He knew it was stupid, but he felt like if Francis acknowledged the wreck of Alfred's wrist, that would make it real. After all, Francis had taught him how to play music.

"What happened," Francis said.

"Arlya," Alfred whispered.

"Why?"

"She wasn't pleased with the earlier versions of my ballad."

Alfred was startled to see real anger flash in Francis' eyes.

"I see," Francis said. He started to reach for Alfred's hand, but stopped mid-motion. "I wish there was more that I could do, but I'm afraid my roses need my full attention. Though I know Kiku is anxious to see you. Perhaps you could leave me to my work and bother your friend."

The suddenness of the dismissal startled Alfred. Nevertheless, he complied. Caelei was treacherous for him now, and Francis was much more skilled in intrigue that Alfred. He would trust his instructions.

The little workshop that Kiku had set up sent smoke up into the otherwise clear air of Caelei. A fire roared in the corner. Alfred had to raise his voice to get Kiku's attention.

Kiku turned to face Alfred with a frown on his face, then surprised Alfred when he threw his arms around Alfred.

"I'm glad you're alright," he said, barely audible over the noise of the workshop. It was more emotion than Alfred thought he'd seen from Kiku in his entire life combined. He was touched. Perhaps he wasn't as alone as he thought here.

As he had the thought, the door of the workshop banged open and Gilbert walked in. Alfred froze, unsure if he was faced with an enemy or not.

"Alfred," Gilbert said. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked over Alfred. "Glad to see you in one piece."

Kiku noticed Alfred's wariness and said, "Gilbert is working with Francis," he said. "We can trust him."

"My people are getting killed," Gilbert said.

"I thought they were the ones killing people," Alfred said, not convinced.

Gilbert's pale face flushed. "I'm the god of hunters, boy. All hunters are my people."

"Including the Southerners," Kiku clarified.

"Elizaveta's people?"

Gilbert gave a stiff nod. "Hunters don't need temples to be hunters. They practice the rite of the hunt, and so they deserve my protection."

Alfred glanced at Kiku who nodded.

"Look," said Gilbert. "I'm not going to cover up what I say in metaphor or niceties like Francis does. I'm sick of this war. I want it to end with as few people dead as possible. The other gods are keeping a close watch on him because they know he's soft on humans and daemons. They're not giving me the same scrutiny. So we're allies, alright?"

Alfred considered everything for a few long moments, but when he couldn't find anything to protest, he nodded. He needed as many friends as he could get.

"I'm glad I've got someone who I can just talk straight to," he said. That made Gilbert laugh.

"Francis does have a flair for the dramatics, doesn't he?" Gilbert said. He face turned serious.

"I'm glad you've returned alright," he said. "If we're going to stop this war, we need everyone at their best."

"Alright is an overstatement," Alfred said, emotion cracking his voice slightly.

Kiku blinked. "What's wrong?

Alfred wordlessly held out his injured hand towards Kiku. The wrist was bumpy and heavily bruised, sporting blotches of green and purple. His fingers were curled slightly, and Alfred tried to wiggle them. They twitched a little as a bolt of pain ripped over him.

Kiku caught Alfred's shoulder as he wobbled, and let Alfred catch his breath before speaking.

"What happened?" Kiku asked. "When I saw you last, it was a clean break."

"Arlya broke it. I couldn't really keep track of how many times," Alfred said. Under the safety of the roaring noise of Kiku's forge, Alfred recounted the events at the Library of the Gods.

Kiku paled as Alfred went on, but otherwise didn't show any sign of surprise. Gilbert gave such a string of curses that Alfred worried for a moment that they might draw unwanted attention. But when he calmed down, Gilbert took a closer look at Alfred's wrist.

"I don't suppose you can do anything for him?" Kiku asked.

Gilbert let out a low whistle. "I've treated more injuries than I can count," Gilbert said. "I know when something's broken beyond repair."

"I doubt Arlya even realized the degree of damage she was doing," Alfred said.

"She knew," Gilbert said. His voice was hard and his face flushing into blotches of rage. "Why do you think she'd go for your wrist? You lost that, you can't play music, you can't fight, you stay here forever with her. Safe."

Alfred chewed on his lower lip. As much as it chilled him, he thought Gilbert was probably right.

Seeing Alfred's face fall, Gilbert added, "If it makes you feel any better, I don't think she thought about what it would do to you. She loves you."

Alfred let out a hollow laugh. "If this is how she's expressing her love, it doesn't make me feel any better." He gave his head a shake, trying to clear it. "I won't be able to fight like you taught me, will I?" he asked.

"Not very effectively," Gilbert said, putting his hand over his mouth. He tapped at his chin as he thought. "Wielding one dagger just isn't very useful. I suppose I could start teaching you what sword-craft I know. Maybe teach you enough to not die in the coming battle."

Kiku gave a small cough to interrupt. "I think I may have the answer to that," he said. He gestured for the other two to follow him into the corner of the workshop. On the bench was something Alfred had never seen before. It looked like a long metal tube with a polished wood end.

"We call it a rifle," Kiku said. "It uses gun powder to shoot slugs of lead at high speeds. As long as you can brace it with your hand, you should be able to operate it just fine."

Kiku lifted it to his shoulder, resting the wooden end in the crook. "It's been Daka's project for centuries—how to make these. She and Pakram have spent considerable energy suppressing anything similar that starts to crop up in the mortal realm."

"She's been waiting for the end of the war to be in sight," Gilbert mused. "Then throw this into the mix as a secret advantage."

Kiku nodded. "It's been difficult to develop," he said. "But I think if Alfred takes this prototype, he'll be at an advantage."

"So it hurls a lump of lead," Alfred said, not sure why this was such a big deal. "I'm not sure how this is going to help me win a battle."

Kiku shook his head. "It will be easier to show you," Kiku said. Kiku lead the way outside. He asked Gilbert to set up some sort of target for the demonstration. He showed Alfred how to load the rifle by first pouring in blasting powder then jamming the lead ball down with a long rod.

When everything was ready, he turned to Alfred. "Cover your ears," he said. Alfred complied.

Kiku made a series of motions that Alfred didn't pay close attention to, and then fired. The little man was kicked back a little and there was a bang louder than anything Alfred had ever heard. The target Gilbert had set up was gone, a pile of rubble where it had been a few seconds ago.

"Shit," Alfred said, then repeated the word louder when he couldn't hear himself talk.

* * *

Alfred using and practicing with the rifle was easy enough to explain the other gods. It was going to be his weapon in the war. It wasn't even a lie. The rifle was unwieldy, slow, and hard to aim. Nevertheless, even Daka in all her warrior's glory couldn't rival the amount of damage Alfred could do in one strike. Even a glancing blow would likely cause a fatal injury unless treated immediately.

The rifle filled Alfred with a heady mix of fear and exhilaration. For the first time in his life, his power matched the gods. The rifle had many drawbacks—it was slow, and reloading was difficult with only one good hand. But when the blast went off, and the target was shredded, Alfred couldn't help the electrifying joy that came with such destructive power.

As time passed in Caelei, the gods prepared. Alfred wasn't invited to join their council. Neither was Francis. Though if that bothered the god, Alfred couldn't tell. Gilbert would discreetly fill their little crew in when he could, but spending too much time together would arouse suspicion, and then they'd lose their only inside source.

Living off scraps of information drove Alfred mad. He spent most of his time with Francis and Kiku up by Francis' gardens, pacing while the other two made bland conversation. His restlessness was only increased by the sense of being watched all the time—both by the gods he was working against and his own allies. There was no chance of escape from the wretched waiting. No chance to find comfort in Arthur's sardonic presence. He missed Feliciano. Despite the note they'd parted on, Alfred could think of no one he'd rather try to piece together their spare information with.

Weeks passed in this manner, until one afternoon as Alfred paced around Kiku and Francis, Gilbert appeared. His breath came in pants and his face was a chalky white.

"It's happening. They have a plan to draw out the daemons, and we don't have any time to waste."

Everyone on the hillside gave Gilbert their attention, though they moved slowly. No one had expected escalation this soon.

Gilbert ran his hands through this sweaty hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. "Daka and Pakram have had troops in motion for weeks, but they hadn't told anyone but each other. They'll arrive at Drachma tonight."

"Tonight?" Alfred said, stunned.

"Sweet mercy," Francis said. Gilbert nodded.

"What is it?" Alfred asked.

"It's the Fall Festival," Gilbert said.

"Antonio mentioned that," Alfred said. "It's to celebrate the harvest, right?"

"Yes," Francis said. "And it's a day that brings all the wandering tribes to Drachma for trade and celebration."

"The city will be bursting," Gilbert added. "They'll be slaughtered."

"And nothing draws out daemons like killing their favorite people."

"So it's a trap," Kiku said.

Francis and Gilbert nodded. Gilbert shook his head, as if trying to clear it. "Alright, Alfred. You'll come with me."

"What?" Alfred asked. He looked towards Kiku and Francis. "Why not them? I'm the one who is fated to kill the daemons. I thought we wanted to avoid that?"

"I'm being watched," Francis said, rage etched in every word he spoke. "If I vanish, the others will figure out that we're planning something."

"You want to help these people, right?" Gilbert said. Alfred nodded. "They know you. They know the daemons trust you. Or at least know that Arthur trusts you. You're the only one here who they'll believe. So you come with me. Francis and Kiku will try to make sure our presence goes unnoticed for as long as possible."

"But—" Alfred started to say.

"No," said Gilbert, cutting him off. "We don't have time to discuss this. Get you're rifle, Alfred. We're going to Drachma."

Kiku retrieved the rifle and handed it to Alfred. Something stirred underneath his usual calm expression.

"Alfred," he said softly, no yet letting go of the rifle. "It would be useless to wish you safety. So good luck."

"Kiku," Alfred said, worried that this may be the last chance they had to speak for a long time. "Stay safe. I don't want to lose my oldest friend."

"We shall see what Fate has in store for us," he said, then pushed the rifle and its gear into Alfred's hands.

"Let's go!" Gilbert said, and pulled Alfred after him into the mortal world.


	24. Leaving the Tower

A wall of warm, humid air enveloped Alfred as his feet touched down on a back street of Drachma. He took a deep breath, not caring that it carried the faint stench of marshland, and let it fill him up, dispelling Caelei's pervasive chill. The late afternoon sun was lost behind the tall buildings of the city, but sparkles of orange light reflected off bits of polished stone. It made the city look as if it were alight.

But they had no time to contemplate the play of light in the decaying city. As soon as he got his bearings, Gilbert set out at a run, pulling Alfred after him.

"What's the plan?" Alfred shouted ahead. There was a dim roar of voices in the direction they seemed to be heading.

"The temples," Gilbert shouted over his shoulder. "If I can just get there soon enough, I might be able to get my dedicates to help get Drachma prepared."

"And what about the citizens?" Alfred asked. "What can we do for them?"

"Not enough."

Alfred stopped short.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

Gilbert turned to him. He looked pained. "It means that there's no good option for us to take. We tell them what's coming, we panic them. We don't tell them, they get slaughtered by invaders."

"So what do we do?"

"I told you," Gilbert snapped. "We go to the temples—"

"Who are crawling with dedicates who will do anything to stop us!"

"Alfred," Gilbert said impatiently. He turned back and began dragging Alfred after him down the narrow alleyways. "The citizens here aren't going to trust us. My dedicates are the only source of information and influence in the city."

"But—"

Gilbert glared at Alfred over his shoulder. "Sometime you have to accept imperfect solutions. It's the only way we'll be able to make any difference before the Aeneans get here."

Alfred dropped the argument. It still sat with him wrong, but Gilbert had a point.

After a few more moments of navigating the streets, the narrow alley opened onto a square. It sat in contrast to the rest of the city, a jewel in the mud. The stone of the square was washed clean, and the lapis shards were dazzling in the late light. This was clearly a stronghold of the gods in the otherwise daemon-friendly city, and that set Alfred's nerves on edge. He half expected to be attacked as they ran over the open ground, but no one stopped them.

Gilbert hit the temple doors and a run, cracking the old wood as they passed. Dedicates in colors of many gods stared at their passing, but Gilbert didn't stop to speak to any of them. Finally, at the end of one of the temple wings, there was a chamber that seemed halfway between an office and a hall. It was filled with furs and weapons of the hunt. The room was too large to be just for one person's use, as the room could comfortably hold dozens of people.

A large woman sat behind an enormous wooden desk. She had the pale skin of a northerner, but it was deeply tanned from time in the southern sun. She stood and bowed as she recognized Gilbert.

"Lord of the Hunt," she said with reverence. "To what do—"

"I need information, Liga," Gilbert said, interrupting her. He turned and closed the doors behind him, giving them at least the appearance of privacy. The woman, Liga, looked between Gilbert and Alfred, curiosity plain on her face.

"I will do what I can, My Lord."

"What do you know of the movements of the other dedicates here in Drachma?"

Liga frowned, and looked to the ceiling in thought. "I concern myself mostly with my subordinates," she said after a moment. "But they often work side my side with dedicates of other gods."

"I need as many of them as you can round up," Gilbert said.

Liga nodded and prepared something at her desk. "I will ring for as many of them as I can. Come with me."

As they walked through the temple halls, Liga seemed to gather her courage. Finally she asked, "My Lord, may I ask what this is about?"

Gilbert eyed the dedicates that surrounded them. Many stared at him and Alfred, alarmed. It was usually an event of great fanfare for gods to appear to their dedicates. "Not here," he said in a low voice.

Liga glanced around. "You distrust the others." It wasn't a question. She eyed the dedicates they passed with sharp eyes, her suspicious aroused.

"I'll explain when you've gathered who you can."

Alfred trailed after the long-striding hunters, feeling every minute that slipped by. They exited onto the roof of the temple, where an enormous iron bell hung. Liga rang the bell seven times, the deep tolling echoing over the entire city. They stood at the precipice of the temple, gazing down upon the tangled streets and waterways of Drachma as the sound echoed away. Alfred peered out to the north. The soldiers from Aenea were out there, though he couldn't see anything through the haze and humidity. When the bell was quiet, the three of them left.

Once they had returned to Liga's chambers, Alfred began pacing, rifle and his pouches of lead slugs and powder heavy across his back. Though Gilbert's dedicates arrived at a run, he felt the room was filling far too slowly.

Gilbert clearly felt the same way, because he started talking before many had gathered. He tried to keep his voice low, wandering among the dedicates and asking if they'd seen the other dedicates performing tasks out of the ordinary. Alfred left his pacing and followed him, keeping track of what the dedicates reported.

Apparently the last few weeks had been unusually busy for the dedicates of Pakram and Vahnic. The temples across the city had taken a sudden interest in providing for the poorer city folk, putting up or repairing some of the older buildings in the city.

That caught Alfred and Gilbert's attention. They drew together near the back of the chamber.

"What do you think is going on?" Alfred asked.

"I don't know," Gilbert said. "But those projects aren't just coincidence. The dedicates here have been preparing for the invasion."

Liga strode over to the two conversing men. She crossed her arms and said, "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

Gilbert bit his lip, as if trying to decide. He nodded, deciding to trust his dedicates.

"Do you know what's going to happen tonight?"

Liga shook her head.

"A force from Aenea is marching on Drachma," he whispered. "Daka and Pakram's people."

"Why?" Liga asked. "What is going on?"

"It would take to long to explain the why," Gilbert said.

Alfred interrupted, "They're just trying to kill as many Southerners as possible."

Liga paled. "And you think the dedicates here are going to help them."

Gilbert nodded. "I think they're going to spring some sort of trap from within the city. Give their Aenean counterparts some aid," he said.

"We're trying to stop them," Alfred added.

Liga nodded and worried her lip. She turned to the gathered dedicates. Immediately, a hush fell over the room as the hunters turned their attention to Liga, their leader. She clasped her hands behind her back and barked, "Hunters! We have dedicated our lives to Gilbert of the Hunt, and now he asks for our aid. As hunters, it is our holy duty to feed and protect the people of this world. Our people are in danger now, but not from beasts.

"An army from the mountains marches on this city, a city filled with people of the land. They wish to slaughter them like vermin."

Murmurs or surprise and anger rose from the assembled dedicates. Liga raised her voice further, silencing them.

"Worse still is the treachery at play. Lord Gilbert suspects the dedicates of this city are prepared to spring traps from within to aid the invaders with their slaughter. I ask of you all to come forward if you have any information about anything suspicious you have seen your fellows doing in recent times."

Liga looked into the faces of the gathered hunters, letting her own rage shine through. After taking a breath, she continued.

"We would not slaughter a cub to bait a mother bear, and so we shall not let our siblings in this city be slaughtered for Aenea's purposes."

Liga stepped down, and the crowd of gathered dedicates erupted in chatter. Gilbert and Alfred stood by as hunters shuffled forward, and the group sorted through rumor to find solid leads. Finally, a number of buildings were circled on a map of the city. These were the most likely places that the dedicates would have set traps.

"We'll take this one," Gilbert said, pointing to a circle in the center of the map. It was one of the buildings that was supposedly being reconstructed. It lay near the top of the city, near a major headway of the canals that wound through the entire city. It seemed like one of the more strategic points in the chaotic city. "Spare who you can to try the other areas on here, but I want most of my dedicates working to get people out of the city or prepared for the invasion."

"Yes, My Lord," Liga said, then turned back to the gathered hunters. "You heard The Lord of the Hunt! I want everyone working with their partners or in small groups. Henriett, Dagon, Osrik, Penelope, I want your groups to investigate the other buildings. The rest of you, evacuate who you can, prepare those who won't or can't leave."

The crowd broke apart, and Gilbert and Alfred made their own exit.

"Meet me at the building," Gilbert said once they were outside. "I'll scout it out."

He vanished on the spot, leaving Alfred alone. Alfred took to the air, making his way to the north. He found the building they were looking for easily enough. It was the only wooden structure in the area that wasn't sagging from age.

The skeleton of the building rose from the edge of the canal. Thick ropes hung to keep citizens out. Alfred touched down outside the building and peered inside. The walls of the ground floor had been erected, but inside the large rectangle, the foundation of the building was in disarray.

Alfred looked up examining the area. This was clearly a poor part of the city, given the disrepair of the neighborhood. However, on the opposite side of the canal there were a number of houses in much better shape. They didn't gleam like the dedicate's buildings, but they also didn't look like they were about to collapse. Just past the houses, Alfred glimpsed a crowd of people packing what was probably a neighborhood square. It was likely that many people from this dilapidated slum were over there enjoying the richer celebrations.

"They're certainly up to something," Gilbert said, appearing beside Alfred. Alfred dragged his mind from wondering about the citizens back to the job at hand.

"So are we going in?" Alfred asked.

Gilbert thought for a moment, rubbing his hand against his chin. Finally he said, "I see no other way. If we do run into enemies, we should be able to get a drop on them at least."

They ducked under the rope and snuck through the doorway. The setting sun filtered through the gaps in the wooden walls, illuminating the wrecked floor. The stones that had been placed as the foundation for the original building had been torn up, leaving a gaping hole. Hastily built stairs disappeared into the dark below.

"What were they doing?" Alfred asked.

"No idea. But we're going down there."

"And if there are other dedicates down there? The tunnel's a chokepoint. We can't maneuver down there."

Gilbert dropped a hand onto Alfred's shoulder. "Neither can they," he said. "And we've got that rifle of yours. We'll be able to compensate for their superior numbers that way."

Alfred gulped, then turned back to the tunnel entrance. He hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Gilbert set the little hand lamp on his belt alight, then drew two long daggers. Alfred loaded the rifle, and carried it across his front. The two descended down the stairs and underground.

In the slight glow of Gilbert's lantern, Alfred could see wooden beams supporting the tunnel every couple feet. As the stairs leveled out, they walked through water that pooled on the bottom of the tunnel. It deepened as they went farther. Soon, the water was knee deep and if weren't for planks of wood that lined the floor, they would have lost their boots to the brackish mud the bottom of the tunnel had become.

"I think we're under the canal," Alfred said.

Gilbert made a noise of agreement. "This tunnel can only be a few days old," he said. "Something like this will collapse before too long in land this boggy."

"What do you think it's for?" Alfred asked.

"Don't know. But we'll find out soon."

The tunnel rose again, and Alfred and Gilbert found another set of wooden stairs. Though this time, flickering lantern light and voices echoed down to them.

Alfred realized he was holding his breath, and he told himself to breath as he snuck up towards the voices behind Gilbert. They came around a turn in the tunnel and came face to face with two large men. They must have been standing guard.

The unlucky guards didn't have a chance. As soon as they came into view, Gilbert moved with animal grace. In two long steps, he closed the space between himself and the first guard and plunged his first dagger into the gap of his armor just below his chin. The man gurgled as he died. Gilbert whipped around, slashing at the second guard. The man managed to get out of the way of the first dagger, but fell as Gilbert's second struck flesh.

A commotion rose beyond the guards as several men and women came forward.

"Take them down, Alfred," Gilbert shouted, throwing himself down, out of Alfred's line of fire.

The weeks of training had turned aiming and firing the rifle into habit, and Alfred performed automatically. There was a flash of light and a bang so loud it made the rest of the world silent. The lead ball went flying, ripping into several men and women who were pressed together in the tunnel. After his ears had stopped ringing, Alfred heard the screams of those who hadn't been hit, but knew not what had made the sound and ripped their companions to bloody scraps.

The screams were silenced soon by Gilbert taking advantage of the confusion and fear, dispatching those who remained with a hunter's efficiency. When he was done, he absently whipped the bloody blades on his trousers.

Alfred stared at the carnage in the dim lantern light. The battle had only lasted moments, but now he counted eight people dead. He could make out colors of several gods, though some, like the three he'd caught in his line of fire, we so soaked in blood that he couldn't tell. A ball of panic formed in his gut, hot and cold at the same time. There was so much blood.

Gilbert's steady hand snapped Alfred out of his daze. "Come on," he said. "We still have a job to do."

Alfred nodded, refocusing. "Right. Let's find out what was going on here."

The two men stepped over the corpses into a larger chamber beyond. Along the far side of the little room were half a dozen large barrels, a pile of shovels, and a number of little wooden kegs. Alfred and Gilbert hurried over to them, and carefully pried a lid off one of the larger barrels. Inside was a liquid , but it was hard to tell what it was in the dark. It smelled strongly of pine. Gilbert dipped his finger in and licked it. Then he swore.

"This is oil," he said. "Though thicker than usual lantern oil should be. And I can bet I know what in the little ones."

"Blasting powder?" Alfred asked.

"Exactly."

"And that would set the oil on fire. And collapse the buildings above us."

"It's worse than that," Gilbert said. He approached the far wall of the room. Wooden supports still held, but the dirt wall was starting to fall away. "The canal flows right by us and into the rest of the city."

"The water will carry the fire everywhere," Alfred said with realization. "Gilbert. We have to get to the rest of those places your dedicates marked."

Gilbert shook his head. "We have to trust that to my dedicates. We have to make sure this place can't go off."

With a grunt, Gilbert pushed over the heavy barrel they'd opened. It sloshed onto the dirt floor.

"Help me," Gilbert said. "We'll mix the oil in with the mud and soak the powder. It's the best we can do."

It was hard work and it left Alfred coated in slightly sticky oil. As they ran back through the tunnel under the canal, it drifted off them. In Gilbert's little lantern light, Alfred could see the rainbow swirls in the water.

The roar of voices in the city had reached a deafening volume when Alfred and Gilbert stepped back into the streets. It seemed Gilbert's dedicates were spreading warning of the incoming invasion, but upon seeing people running about in a panic, Alfred wasn't sure how much good it had done.

The sun sat, fat and red on the horizon. Their daylight was fading fast.

Alfred turned to ask Gilbert what to do next, but he was cut off by the tolling of the temple bells. Ten times they rang, and their cold iron tones made Alfred's blood run cold. The people of Drachma stood frozen in the split second of silence after the final clang.

Explosions lit up the darkening city. The ground trembled with the noise. Somewhere in the distance, a series of echoing cracks signaled a falling building.

As the sun slipped past the horizon, a new glow appeared. This one came from the city itself. Around Alfred, the glow of fire blazed, carried throughout the city on the water.


	25. The Burning City

Elizaveta made it a habit to celebrate holidays with the people she looked after. And although it required her to be more careful when near hostile dedicates, the holiday was worth the risk.

But as she sat in one of Drachma's many squares, her enormous wings tucked politely behind her, she felt something shift in the city. The wild abandon of celebration altered to an overpowering sense of terror. Perhaps the frantic dedicates she'd seen running about all day were the cause. Most of them wore Gilbert's colors. Elizaveta pondered what plot the god was concocting.

When the sun slipped away and the great temple bells began to toll, Elizaveta had stopped with the rest of the city. Something was happening—something big.

The echo of the bell rolled across the city. Everyone, including Elizaveta looked to the sky and waited to see what the tolling heralded. Elizaveta counted heartbeats after the ringing had faded into the night.

_One…_

_Two…_

One the third beat of her heart, the blasts erupted from all around the city. Pillars of light and smoke rose, making the rising moon glow red on the horizon. Elizaveta felt the fire in her blood, and the chaos rapidly taking hold of the city was sliding into her heart, filling her with the Drachmans' fear.

She turned to try and calm the citizens around her, but her efforts were interrupted as the buildings by the water burst into flames. The ancient wood buildings crumbled before Elizaveta could process what was going on. As they fell, sparks and tongues of flame jumped onto the old, crammed-together buildings.

 _This must be Gilbert's doing_ , she thought, staring helplessly as the panicking civilians shied away from the flames that surrounded them. With a furious scream that sounded more hawk than human, she raised her great wings and took to the air.

The heat from the inferno lifted as if she were just another spark dancing up to the sky. The pine-scented smoke stung her eyes and choked her breath, but she circled the city.

There were a few places that seemed untouched by flames. One of the older slums near the top of the city, the southernmost docks, and the areas around the temples. The temples made sense, if this was an attack by the gods. But to leave the docks and especially one poor slum untouched? What was Gilbert playing at?

In her quick survey of the city, Elizaveta saw what made the flames so deadly in this watery town. They traveled through the canals on thick slicks of oil. Whatever the oil clung to so did the flame. Pockets of damp just made the oil fire spit furiously, spreading further.

Her people were dying, burning and choking. She would find Gilbert. And when she found him, she would tear his heart out for doing this to her people.

* * *

Alfred watched the distant glow grow into an inferno and he'd never felt more useless. For all that they'd stopped one trap from being sprung, more went off without a hitch and now the city burned.

Gilbert stood beside him, staring at the rising flames with a look Alfred could not decipher.

"What do we do now?" Alfred asked.

Gilbert didn't answer for a long time, and Alfred worried he hadn't been heard.

"Gilbert?" Alfred said. "What—"

"I heard you," Gilbert said. "I don't know."

Just as Gilbert finished speaking, a scream ripped through the air. A large figure dropped through the smoke and landed on top of Gilbert, knocking him to the ground. An enormous wing buffeted Alfred. He stumbled back as the ball of raging daemon clawed at Gilbert, never ceasing her awful apian shriek.

Alfred tried to get in close to help, but Elizaveta's massive wings kept his at bay as she attacked. Gilbert, though caught by surprise, managed to get one of his daggers out and between the two of them. The metal of the blade sizzled where it touched her skin, but that just seemed to drive the woman into a deeper rage.

"Alfred!" Gilbert shouted.

Alfred took a page from the daemon's own book and came at her from above. He dropped like a stone, letting his momentum tear Elizaveta off Gilbert.

Which left him to grapple with the angry daemon.

Elizaveta took a swing at Alfred, trying to get a hold of his neck. Alfred barely fell back out of the way, but her sharp fingernails scratched his cheek, drawing blood.

"We're not your enemy here!" Alfred shouted at her as she loomed over him. If she heard him, she didn't seem to believe him or care. She drew a sharp obsidian dagger from her belt, and was about to lunge at him when Gilbert knocked her off balance from the side.

"Listen to the boy," he shouted. Elizaveta rounded of Gilbert, a snarl on her face.

Alfred scrambled to his feet and held empty palms out to her. "We're on the same side, Elizaveta."

She glared as Gilbert sheathed his dagger and raised his own hands.

"Why should I believe you?" she said. "You ravaged this city only months ago with the rest of your kin." Gilbert looked at the ground guiltily. She chanced a second look at Alfred and seemed to recognize him.

"You are Arthur's human friend, aren't you?" she asked, though her eyes never strayed from Gilbert for more than a second. "I remember you. You saved him from the war goddess during that attack."

Alfred latched onto that. "Yes! I'm Arthur's friend! I was exiled from Caelei because I saved him, and then I lived in Albion when I visited him, but then he got mad at me. Still he came to save me when I was trapped in the god's clutches!" Alfred held up his crippled wrist to show her. "Arlya tortured me while I was there. And now I'm working to stop the gods from killing all the daemons. He's my best friend!"

Elizaveta spared him a startled look. "I didn't need your life story. But if you were captured by the gods and Arthur saved you, why are you with them?"

Alfred hesitated at that. "It's a long story," he said sheepishly.

"Longer than the one you just told me?" Elizaveta asked with a bemused shake of her head.

"So do you believe us?" Gilbert asked. "We don't have time to fight each other."

"Maybe," she said, glaring at him. "If Arthur can confirm you're story, then we will be allies."

"No—!" Alfred said, but it was too late. Elizaveta sent out a shriek that felt like it pierced Alfred's very being. The sound rippled out, louder than the roaring of the flames and extended to the far reaches of the world. In a moment, the forms of the other high daemons appeared. As they arrived, they shouted and covered their faces against the heat. Arthur was the last to arrive, but only by seconds.

While the other daemons stood confused, Arthur spotted Alfred and immediately leaped towards him. Alfred tried to brace himself from whatever unexpected attack Arthur was springing on him. But there was no attack. Rather, Arthur stopped just short of Alfred, gave him a quick once-over, and then abruptly embraced him.

"I think this is more affection you've shown than in all of the rest of our acquaintance combined," Alfred remarked, but enthusiastically returned the embrace. Despite the danger they were in, Alfred felt a warm stillness wash over him now that Arthur was here. A point of calm in the chaos of the city.

"I was worried that evil woman had hurt you more," Arthur said into Alfred's neck.

"You really do care," Alfred said fondly.

"I don't know what gave you that ludicrous idea," Arthur said, though his warm tone betrayed him.

Alfred squeezed Arthur back as hard as he could. "I missed you too."

"Well I suppose that answers my question well enough," said a voice from behind them. Elizaveta, along with Ivan, and Natalia, stared at them. She nodded towards Gilbert, who still held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Alfred says he's on our side," she said.

Arthur looked at Alfred, who nodded.

"He wants this to stop. We can trust him."

"I believe them," Arthur said, which seemed like it was good enough for the others. Though they weren't happy about it.

"Speak then, God," Natalia said. "What is going on?"

Gilbert sighed. "We don't have time for this," he muttered to himself before giving the daemons the short version of the god's plans.

"That means you should get out of here," Alfred said.

"They're murdering my people," Elizaveta said.

"Let the gods come," Ivan said. "This war has dragged for too long."

"If you stay, you're just playing into their hands," Alfred said.

Elizaveta turned to face the rising inferno. "What do you want me to do, human? Leave? Let my people burn for me?"

Alfred didn't have an answer to that.

Elizaveta nodded at his silence. "I will defend them, and do not be so certain of our defeat."

Alfred looked to Arthur. As their eyes met, they knew what the other was thinking. _The prophecy._

"You can't stay," Alfred whispered to Arthur. Arthur shook his head.

"I can't just run while innocent people are dying," he said. His eyes clouded with emotion as he held Alfred's gaze. "And neither can you. You're too much of a bloody hero."

Alfred seemed to deflate. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen," he said, his voice hushed so only Arthur could hear him. Though even to himself he sounded resigned.

"We can't waste any more time!" Elizaveta said.

"Wait!" Gilbert said. The eyes of the daemons shifted to him, heavy with suspicion. Gilbert ignored them.

"They're here," he said. As soon as he'd spoken, figures appeared in the smoke. They moved with deliberation rather than the panicked haste of the Drachmans. The Aenean soldiers had arrived.

As Alfred watched, one drew a sword and cut down a man and two children who hadn't noticed him in their rush to escape the city. In moments, more calm shadows appeared in the smoke, all as deadly as the first.

"We have to get the citizens out of here," Gilbert said.

The daemons exchanged a glance, seeming to send an entire conversation through eye contact alone. With a solemn nod, they looked up at Alfred and Gilbert.

It was Elizaveta who spoke to them. "My low daemons are coming," she said. "Get people to the southern most docks to be evacuated. We will take care of the Aeneans."

With a war cry and a huge sweep of her wings, Elizaveta took to the air. Ivan and Natalia soon vanished into the fray, leaving Arthur, Alfred, and Gilbert alone.

Arthur turned to Alfred, speaking directly to him. "We'll give you as much time as we can, but as soon as the Aenean army is here, you need to get out."

Alfred's eyes widened. "You're going to do magic—"

"Shh!" Arthur said, glancing at Gilbert with distrust. "It's going to be dangerous. If you're in the city, you'll die just like the soldiers."

Alfred nodded. "How long do we have?"

Arthur turned towards Gilbert. "God!" he shouted.

"I have a name," Gilbert complained. Arthur ignored him.

"How long until the entire Aenean army is within the city?" Alfred asked.

"It's a big army," Gilbert said. "Maybe few hours?"

"Fine, then. A few hours, then you need to be out."

"No," Gilbert said. Arthur prickled, but Gilbert cut him off. "If we're going to evacuate the whole damned city we need more time. Give us until dawn."

"Alright," Arthur said. "But as soon as it's dawn, you better be out. Unless you want to die the same death the Aenean soldiers will meet."

"Understood, daemon," Gilbert said.

Arthur turned to leave, then hesitated. "Alfred," he said, looking back. He seemed to fumble with his words, but finally managed to say, "Stay safe."

"You too," Alfred said. There was so much more he wanted to say: _You're my best friend,_ or _I don't want to live in a world without you so please don't die._ But as Arthur left, he felt a hollow cavity open in his chest, consuming words he dared not voice.

"Look out!" a Gilbert shouted, snapping Alfred from his thoughts. Through the smoke came a line of figures. They were far too calm to be civilians.

Alfred hastened to swing his rifle off his back. "Keep them off me," he called to Gilbert.

When Alfred and Gilbert showed no sign of moving, the Aenean soldiers charged. Most of the bore pole arms, which would have given them an advantage over Gilbert's short daggers had he not been a god.

As Alfred jammed the lead slug into the rifle barrel, Gilbert danced around the soldiers, evading their strikes and retaliating when he could sneak into an opening. He dispatched a few soldiers in this manner, but the sounds of fighting brought more to replace the fallen.

Soon, one of the fallen corpses tripped Gilbert, sending him sprawling. A soldier, their face obscured by a helm, rushed forward to spear him. Such a blow would not kill a god, but it would hurt—and more importantly, render Gilbert useless in saving the southern citizens.

Before the blow could land, an explosion ripped through the air. The soldier above Gilbert was thrown back, armor shattered. A woman's scream rose through the smoke. Alfred stared down the smoking barrel of the rifle as the soldier flailed in the dirt and ash before she finally fell quiet. Around the fallen soldier, her companions panicked from the blast of the gunshot and the damage it had done to their fully armored companion.

In the disarray, Gilbert managed to regain his feet. Alfred barely registered Gilbert walking towards him. His eyes were locked at the body lying in front of him.

"Alfred," Gilbert said, his voice pitched as if he were trying to calm a frightened animal. "Alfred," he repeated when Alfred didn't respond. "Don't look at it."

Alfred's eyes whipped to meet Gilbert's.

"I did that," he said, then turned to resume staring at the mess of torn armor and blood. "I killed her."

Gilbert sighed. "This really isn't the time to feel bad about killing someone," he said. "Especially a soldier."

Alfred didn't have time to think more on it as one of the tenements around them finally gave out under the inferno. Gilbert and Alfred fled the cloud of ash and sparks that rose from the skeleton of the building.

The screams of citizens drew their attention. On top of a small hill, several children huddled in the bones of a burnt out shack. As Alfred drew closer, he noticed the bodies of several adults, one of which wore Aenean armor. The Drachmans must have fallen while protecting the children from the soldier. The shrieked and the biggest child waved what must have been the soldier's short sword.

"We're here to help!" Alfred shouted. Gilbert parried the child's swipe and grabbed her wrist. Alfred took the short sword from her. She screamed in response and flailed at Gilbert, who still held her.

"Calm down," Gilbert said, trying to sooth her. "It's okay. We're here to help."

The children looked like hell, covered in ash and what was probably their parent's blood. When Gilbert did nothing but hold their impromptu leader still until she calmed, their fear ebbed away.

"You're not going to kill us?" one of the little boys asked. "Like they killed my da?"

"And my brother," another, tiny boy added.

Gilbert shook his head. "No, we're going to get you someplace safe," he said.

The girl in Gilbert's arms started screaming. "There's more! There's more! They're going to kill us all!"

Alfred looked over to where the girl stared with wide-eyed terror. More Aeneans in shining plate strode through the burning city towards the group of children. Along with those wielding spears, their leader had a long sword.

"Al!" Gilbert called. "I can't take all of these kids at once. "Can you hold them?"

Alfred glanced at the girl still screaming in Gilbert's arms. A warmth he'd never felt before flooded through him. In a rush, a fury rose, dispelling the horror of killing that clung to his mind.

"Go!" he shouted at Gilbert. "I'll hold them off!"

With a crack, the god and several children were gone, leaving Alfred alone to face down the oncoming soldiers.

He swung the rifle off his back and reached for the powder. He wouldn't have enough time to reload at the rate the soldiers were coming. He turned over his shoulders at the huddled children.

"Can you slow them down?" he asked. The children looked at him with blank terror. "Throw rocks or wood at them? I just need a minute."

The children glanced between each other. Then one bent and picked up a rock from the road. With a grunt, he hurled it at the soldiers. Aided by their superior position, the rock flew far and hit one of the soldiers in the chest with an audible clang. It clearly didn't do much more than irritate the soldier, but the sound of rock hitting armor seemed to light a fire in the children. Soon they were screaming curses that would have infuriated their parents while pelting the oncoming soldiers with whatever debris they could get their tiny hands on.

When the rifle was finally reloaded, Alfred yelled for the kids to get back. They retreated behind him obediently. When the pelting stopped, the soldiers shouted and charged.

Alfred propped the rifle into his shoulder and looked down the sight. He aimed at their leader, but they charged in a snug group. Even in the likely event that the bullet fly off course, he'd hit flesh.

"Eat this, you bastards!" Alfred shouted. His aim was true, and in the same instant that the rifle cracked, the sword-wielding soldier was blown off his feet, a hole ripped through his armor and his chest.

The children around Alfred screamed at the sound of the bullet, but quickly recovered when they saw that it was the soldiers who this machine of war was aimed at. Though the surprise of the bullet scared and scattered the oncoming soldiers, they were professionals. They raced up the road, too fast to give Alfred time to reload again.

"Stay behind me!" he shouted to the few remaining children. Stooping, he picked up the bloody short sword from the bodies at his feet. He may only be able to use one hand, but it was better than being cut down while reloading the rifle.

Alfred had another advantage—Elizaveta's attack on Gilbert had given him an idea. With a swift kickoff, he gained some altitude on the soldiers, which both startled the soldiers and kept him out of reach of their spears. The short sword was awkward in Alfred's hand that had only been trained with daggers. Nevertheless, its increased heft worked to his advantage as he dropped on the first soldier. He easily batted the spear away and let gravity sink the blade into the gap in the soldier's armor he'd seen Gilbert target.

The blade ripped into the soldier, and carried both of them to the ground. Alfred yanked the blade free of the soldier's corpse, but already the others were closing on him. Twisting, Alfred barely managed to dodge the sharp edge of a spear, catching the solid wood across his shoulder. The blow sent him sprawling and the sword tumbling from his grasp.

Alfred scrambled, trying to get airborne. One of the soldiers knocked him back and raised his spear for the killing blow. Alfred braced for impact.

But it never came. An enormous battering ram of smoke collided with the soldier, unnaturally solid despite its wispy appearance. It screamed its fury, a terrifyingly human sound. The remaining soldiers scattered, fleeing the creature's thrashing.

Glowing orange eyes settled on Alfred once the soldiers were gone. Alfred got to his feet and the low daemon made no movement. As it stood still, its smoky form settled into that of a giant antelope, its great antlers bared.

"Thanks," Alfred said, bowing his head to the creature. It raised its head, and examined him. After a moment, it seemed to acknowledge Alfred as an ally. It looked with concern at the corner where the children had been. None remained.

Just as Alfred was following the daemon's gaze, Gilbert reappeared.

"That's the last of them," he said, then seemed to notice the enormous creature behind Alfred. The beast narrowed its eyes at Gilbert, huffing through flared nostrils.

"Woah, girl," Alfred said. "He's on our side."

The daemon gave one more snort than turned away from Gilbert, pointedly ignoring him.

"I suppose this is our backup," Gilbert said. He turned to Alfred and said, "Those children are safe."

"Out of the city?" Alfred asked.

Gilbert nodded.

"Then we move on," Alfred said. "Where next?"

At the question, the daemon made a strange cry. Alfred and Gilbert turned to it.

"I think she has an idea," Alfred said. He considered for a moment, then picked up the short sword from where it had fallen. "Could you take us?" he asked.

The daemon kneeled down, and with a whoop, Alfred pulled himself onto the daemon's back. Despite its wispy appearance, Alfred could definitely feel the creature's solid bulk beneath him.

"Come on!" he called to Gilbert, who as if Alfred had asked him to cut off his own leg.

"I'm not riding _that_!" he shouted.

"Don't be stubborn, Gil!" Alfred said impatiently. "She knows where to take us!"

"Fine!" Gilbert said, and suddenly he was seated behind Alfred on the daemon's back. "But I don't have to like it."

"Let's go!" Alfred shouted. The daemon cried along with him, and charged forward. The daemon was much taller than even Gilbert, and its long strides ate the distance. The daemon knew the streets of the twisting city, and they took many lost soldiers by surprise. Enemies screamed as the daemon lowered its head and mowed them down with its antlers. The cold metal of their armor made the creature's flesh smoke and filled the already acrid air with the reek of burning peat moss. The daemon was too enraged to care about its own injuries and continued.

The three of them found pockets of survivors, and Gilbert took them to safety as Alfred and the daemon took care of the soldiers.

Time became meaningless in the routine of charging, fighting, then charging again. Even the daemon was looking worse for wear when they finally left the treacherous alleyways for an open square. Despite their exhaustion, Alfred, Gilbert, and the daemon lifted their heads to listen. Screams were coming from nearby. It was time to return to the fight.

Alfred gulped as he saw a great wall of flame between them and the screams. One of the canals lay before them, they oil slick burning high. With a war cry, the daemon ran for it at a full tilt. Alfred and Gilbert shouted and clutched its back as it leaped the canal. Flames licked the daemon's belly, but otherwise, it made the jump without seemingly any effort.

On the other side, the smoke was less thick, but the open square they had landed in was a war zone. Alfred and Gilbert slipped off the daemon's back and threw themselves into the fray. The two found a rhythm that worked. Gilbert was everywhere at once, letting Alfred drop the heavy blows from above, then covering him as he recovered his footing and his advantage. When they wore down the Aenean army to give the Drachman civilians room to breathe, Alfred took a moment to retreat back to them. He looked upon faces filled with terror and rage. They looked at Alfred, and recognized that the lack of heavy armor marked him as a friend.

To the side, the low daemon stood, looking at Alfred expectantly. Alfred nodded at it, then turned to the Drachmans.

"We need to get as many people out of the city as we can," he shouted over the roar of flames and fighting. "The daemons will carry you to safety. For those who don't get carried out right away, make your way south. There are boats and daemons waiting to take you away from the city!"

"I'm not running from these northern bastards!" a young woman shouted. She held a spear in her hand with an ease that suggested she knew how to use it.

"You need to get out of the city!" Alfred repeated. "The high daemons are planning something to take care of the invaders, but if you're here when it happens, you'll be killed too."

"Elizaveta sent you?" the girl asked, her eyes narrow. "How do you know you're not sending us into a trap?"

Alfred grunted in frustration. He had no time for this. "I arrived here riding a freaking daemon!" he shouted, pointing at the daemon.

The woman considered that, and turned to the people around her. "You heard the boy!" she yelled. "We'll load that daemon up with children, then push south."

"Al!" Gilbert shouted from behind him. The god was surrounded by more soldiers than he would be able to hold off for long on his own. With a final nod at the Drachmans, Alfred flew towards Gilbert, using his momentum to bulldoze a few soldiers away from Gilbert.

"We'll hold them off until they get a decent head start," Gilbert said.

Alfred's trip to send the Drachmans on their way had cost them their advantage, and the superior number of soldiers kept the two on the defensive despite their individual superiority.

When Alfred nearly lost his head to a sword swing, Gilbert grabbed him. "That's enough of a head start," he said, and with a crack, he and Alfred were gone.

They reappeared on top of one of the temple roofs. The smoke hit Alfred like a brick wall and he doubled over coughing. Pulling his sleeve across his mouth, he managed to catch his breath. Gilbert peered through the smoke and sparks, seemingly unbothered by either.

"It's almost time," he said, turning his eyes skyward. Alfred couldn't see anything through his smarting eyes, but he believed Gilbert.

"Has it really been hours?" he asked.

"Weird what the thrill of fighting does to time, isn't it?"

"What are the daemons planning?" Alfred wondered aloud.

Just as he voiced the question, the earth roared. Alfred and Gilbert flailed for balance as the temple tilted.

What remained of the burnt out buildings crumbled as the earth shook beneath them. The cobbles and bricks of the footpaths sank into the ground. The ground shuddered then liquefied. The flames gave their last burst of sputters as the mud choked it out. Screaming filled the night air as the ground swallowed the city of Drachma.

As the earth that held the temple's foundation vanished, Alfred and Gilbert spilled with the falling building. Instinct kicked in for Alfred, and he leapt into the air, and grabbed onto Gilbert. The god shouted as the peak of the temple came crashing towards them. Just as it would have knocked them straight into the sinkhole, Gilbert vanished them.

They appeared just out of its way, and crashed into the sludge as the temple crashed beside them. Alfred flailed, trying to take to the air, but the sinkhole swallowed him and he was falling into thick, dark water. He tried to kick his way to the surface, but the more he struggled, the more he sank. His lungs began to burn, but he kept his mouth clamped shut. Water pressed into his nose like cold fingers, trying to pry their way into his air-filled cavities.

Just when he thought he couldn't keep those cold fingers from strangling him, a hand pressed down through the thick water and snatched at his head. It took an immense effort, but Alfred managed to shove his hand up to meet it. The hand clasped onto his and heaved. The sinkhole didn't want to release Alfred, but slowly gave him up.

Alfred's shoulder popped from the strain, a sensation he felt rather than heard. His mouth opened in a scream and immediately flooded with water. He barely managed not to inhale any. Finally, with a final pull, Alfred was above the surface.

"I told you to get out the city!" Arthur shouted, his voice shrill.

Alfred spit out the water in his mouth and managed to wipe the sludge from his eyes. Arthur had pulled him up on the toppled tower that poked out of the mud hole that had recently been City of Drachma, the jewel of the south. Now the canal city was leveled. The structures that hadn't been devoured by the quaking earth stuck out at odd angles like ribs from a decaying carcass.

Alfred looked at Arthur, who was as filthy as Alfred felt, making it clear who his rescuer was. Despite his angry shouting, Arthur scrambled over to Alfred and started examining him for injuries with gentle fingers.

"I think you did something to my shoulder," Alfred said.

Arthur nodded. "Did it pop?"

"Yes."

With a swift motion, before Alfred could protest, Arthur popped his shoulder back.

"Fuck!" Alfred gasped. With a shudder, he collapsed back into Arthur.

"So," Arthur said. "Why didn't you get out of the city in time?"

Alfred shrugged the shoulder that hadn't been dislocated. "We lost track of time," he said. Looking around, he couldn't see much in the pre-dawn grey. After the constant roar of the burning city, the quiet felt like a physical presence. "Where is everyone?"

"You lost track of time," Arthur repeated, shaking his head. "I should have known it was something as stupid and avoidable."

Alfred felt his exhaustion in his very bones. He felt like he could sleep for years and still be tired. "It's not my fault they weren't keeping the time. Whoever was in charge was probably busy with the whole city burning down thing."

Arthur snorted.

"You didn't answer my question," Alfred said. "Where is everyone?"

"Elizaveta saved our godly ally. The other daemons and Gilbert are around nearby. The people we managed to save are gathered along the lakeshore. The nomads had caravans outside of town, and they're providing care and shelter to those they can."

"So we did it," Alfred said.

"We survived the night," Arthur agreed.

Alfred looked at Arthur, for the first time noticing how terrible he looked. At first, he thought it was just that he was soaked and covered in black mud. But as Alfred looked closer, he could see Arthur tremble.

"Are you alright?" Alfred asked.

Arthur looked up at him with glazed eyes. "It just takes a lot out of us," he said.

"The magic?"

Arthur nodded.

Alfred crawled closer to Arthur, and pulled him into his arms. Arthur collapsed, his breathing shallow. As the grey half-light lifted into true dawn, Alfred buried his face in Arthur's hair.

"It's going to be okay now," Alfred said. "I'm going to take care of you, like you've done for me so many times."

The first strings of sunlight crawled over the eastern horizon, bathing the world in new light. Cracks like lightning broke over the city.

The gods had arrived.


	26. Fate Leads Us All

Alfred barely had time to scramble to his feet before the gods went on the offensive.

Daka appeared on the fallen tower next to Arthur and swung at him with her great sword. Arthur would have taken the full brunt of the blow if Francis hadn't appeared a second after Daka and dragged her off balance.

She turned towards Francis with a war cry. In that time, Alfred got between her and Arthur and picked up Arthur's spear where he'd dropped it. He could barely grip it with his maimed hand, but if he just used that hand to guide the spear he thought it would be manageable. He had no training in how to use the pole arm, but he figured that it was enough to try and keep it between him and his attacker.

After Francis lost his advantage of surprise, Daka's superior skill showed. Francis held a longsword, as his saber would be useless against a foe like Daka. Still, it was no match for Daka's greatsword. Francis tried to feint and get under Daka's guard. Daka was too quick and had the advantage of reach. Before Francis could get close, she locked her sword with his, and the sheer weight of hers set Francis' to the ground.

With a sound of contempt, she took her sword in a firm grip and stabbed Francis through the belly. Though it wouldn't kill the god, he was out of the battle for good.

With the pressure, off, she turned back to Arthur, and consequently, to Alfred.

"Get out of the way, boy," she hissed. "We tolerated your treachery once, but I will gladly cut you down if it means ridding the world of filth."

Alfred didn't reply, just shifted his footing for better balance. A little grin appeared on the war goddess' face.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time," she said, then lunged.

Arthur's spear felt clumsy in his hands, but the thick wood managed to catch Daka's attack. Steel bit deep into the hardwood, and for a moment Alfred feared it would cut all the way through. The wood held though, and Alfred managed to push Daka to the side.

With a snarl, Daka let go of her sword, sending Alfred off balance. With a quick step, she regained her footing and twisted, kicking Alfred right in the sternum. The goddess kicked like a horse, and the force of it lifted Alfred off his feet and send him sprawling back. He hit the solid stone of the broken tower heavily and struggled to regain his breath.

Daka didn't give him time. Within a heartbeat of colliding with the stone, she appeared over him and dropped, her knees pinning his shoulders down.

"I've always had a love of this sort of combat," she said, eyes dancing with delight. "It always feels so _intimate_." As she said the last word, she leaned down, close enough that Alfred could feel her breath on his mouth. He just had time think that her breath smelled like blood when she grabbed his hair in both hands and slammed his head against the tower's stone.

Alfred's vision went black and star-filled. He could vaguely hear Daka's warm, merry laugh far, far away. She dragged his head up again, making his stomach roll at the sudden vertigo. However, this time, there was no forceful collision, just a bump as the weight on his chest lifted.

When he came back to himself enough to see, he saw Arthur, latched onto Daka's back like an enormous, angry cat. He held onto her long hair with his hands while his blunt, fox claws dug into her armor for purchase. The contact with her armor sent up smoke and the stench of scorched flesh, but Arthur didn't even seem to notice.

A new figure appeared behind them, and waded into the fray. Pakram grabbed Arthur around the middle and pulled him off Daka, then threw the exhausted daemon to the ground.

Alfred tried to scramble over to the motionless daemon, but he was caught before he had even managed to get to his knees.

"Oh, my baby," Arlya said. Her fingers found the gash on the back of his head, and Alfred felt a cool numbness cover the area. It took a few moments of relishing the relief before his mind cleared again. He jerked away from Arlya and got shakily to his feet. She stood, one fluid motion. Her white clothing shed his blood like water on oilskin, leaving her glowing with a pure whiteness. She frowned at him, and Alfred felt the instinctual fear rise at her apparent disappointment.

Nevertheless, he pushed it down and returned her frown with his own.

"After everything the gods have done for you," Arlya said, her voice hardly above a whisper. "After all _I've_ done for you. _This_ is what you give me in return? Treachery? Betrayal?"

"Mother-" Alfred said, but Arlya interrupted him.

"I raised you. I defended you! If not for me, you'd be dead the day you were born!"

"I know," Alfred said.

"And yet you stand against me?"

"Yes."

Arlya gave a shout of frustrated rage. "Look behind you," she shouted. "Your daemon friends are doomed." Sure enough, as Alfred glanced over her shoulder, she saw the high daemons in a beaten heap, along with the motionless forms of Francis and Gilbert. Around them, the remaining gods looked on their fallen enemies with expressions that ranged from satisfied, to watchful, to gleeful.

"You have the chance to be the hero here," Arlya said. She stooped and handed Alfred his rifle and the oilskin bag that held his supplies.

Alfred stared at the weapon, then looked back at Arlya. He shook his head. It made him dizzy, but he was determined not to waver.

It was then that Alfred realized that he's always been sheltered from the true wrath of the goddess. She shrieked, a sound that sounded completely alien to Alfred and seemed to grow as she reached for him. Alfred had no chance to react. Arlya seemed to stretch, and then she hand her hands with too long fingers wrapped around Alfred's throat.

He dangled from her grasp, staring into her face, which leaked harsh white light from her eyes, nose and mouth. She screamed on, and Alfred wasn't heard if he was hearing words in her scream or not. She squeezed and Alfred thought his head would just pop off.

She let him go as suddenly as she had grabbed him, shrinking back into the tall, but not grotesque, form she usually wore. Despite her best efforts to contain her rage, Alfred noticed the white light leaking out of her in places.

"You've always been a willful boy," she said, as if he was a naughty boy who didn't want to go to bed. Alfred looked at her warily, waiting for the monster to reappear. Aside from the slow trickle of light from her, it didn't.

"I gave you a hero's destiny," she said patiently. "And you will take it."

Alfred narrowed his eyes, saying nothing. Arlya's little frown returned. "Because, if you don't, we'll kill those civilians you tried so hard to save."

"What?" Alfred asked. "They haven't done anything!"

"It would be such a pity," Arlya said, and Alfred thought that she meant it. "Alfred, we don't want to kill anyone! So much blood has been spilt in this silly war. And now you have a chance to save them!"

Alfred glanced through the morning light at the caravans. They were too far away to hear anything, but Alfred could see them in his mind's eye. People grieving together, comforting each other, making plans to rebuild what had been lost.

From where the daemons lay, Alfred heard a voice.

"Don't let them die for us," Arthur said. "I won't let you live with that blood on your hands."

"Arthur—" Alfred started.

Elizaveta interrupted him. "He's right," she said. "We weren't lying when we said we'd die for our people."

"I can't—"

"Listen, boy," Natalia said. "We'll die by your hand of theirs. Let's not doom innocents while we're at it."

Ivan nodded, though didn't seem able to speak.

Alfred looked to Francis for help. Francis always had advice. But the god wouldn't meet his eyes. Neither would Gilbert. After all they'd fought through to get here. It couldn't be over.

Arlya held out the rifle once more. "I will count to three. If you do not take it by then, our hand will be forced.

"One…"

"Don't count like I'm a child," Alfred spat. He took the rifle as Arlya watch on, beaming. The rifle was wet from Alfred's near drowning, and he wiped it down with an oiled cloth from his kit as the whole pantheon watched him. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, his powder had remained dry in its sack. He loaded the rifle automatically. His mind was far away, still scrambling for another solution as his body resigned itself to fate.

When it was loaded, Arlya took him by the arm to where the daemons lay on the broken tower. The ring of gods opened up, until only him and Arlya stood near the fallen and defeated creatures.

_This couldn't be happening_

He raised the rifle, and felt old pain wash through his bad hand. It pulsed and ached as he looked down the barrel.

_It's not fair_

He stood there, staring. Arthur, his best friend, stared back. Arthur gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

_But there's no other way, because_

Moments stretched. The barrel of the rifle sank. "This is the only way it can end," Arlya said.

_Fate leads us all_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_Or does it?_

"I can think of another way to end it," Alfred said. He turned, jerking the barrel into position, and blew Arlya's head clean from her shoulders.


	27. Dying Light

The world had never seen a god die.

For a frozen moment, Arlya stayed upright. Her body was poised in the same position as before, almost normal looking except for the gory pulp of her neck and the conspicuous emptiness above it.

There was a sound like metal tearing that seemed to shriek through the very fabric of the world. Alfred flinched at the sound, trying to get away from the cacophony that felt it would tear him apart at the most basic level. As the sound increased, the body of the goddess trembled. The monstrous light Alfred had seen before made her corpse glow from within. When the metallic ripping sound reached a fever pitch, the light burst from her body out her pulpy neck. The light flew up and out, spreading like an infection through flesh.

Finally the last of the light seemed to drain out of the corpse. Like a heavy piece of cloth, it collapsed and didn't stir.

Gods and daemons alike stared at the empty heap of the once-goddess. Eventually, some gazes shifted to Alfred, most of them filled with fear. He had just done the impossible not once, but twice. He had defied Fate, and he had killed a god.

Alfred, for his part hadn't really thought about what would happen when he shot Arlya. He had just known that he couldn't kill his best friend. His actions had just arisen from that simple fact. He hadn't meant to kill her.

Regardless of what he had or had not intended, Arlya was dead at his feet.

Alfred looked at the gods. The ones who had raised him, and made him both happy and miserable. As he turned towards them, most of them—even Daka—recoiled. Alfred had never seen them scared before. It was an odd feeling, and one he found he didn't like.

Wordlessly, the gods disappeared. Pakram was the last to remain besides Gilbert and Francis. He regarded Alfred with a mixture of caution and rage that Alfred had only seen when Pakram faced down a daemon on his own. He approached Alfred and Arlya's body, never taking his eyes from Alfred.

There was a shuffle of movement from behind, and suddenly Arthur was at Alfred's side.

"Stay away from him," Arthur snarled.

Alfred blinked at Arthur, then shuffled closer. It was good to know that _someone_ wasn't frightened of him.

Pakram continued his slow approach. He opened his mouth and chose his words carefully, something Alfred had never seen him do. That was what confirmed it in Alfred's mind. Pakram was truly terrified. Of _him._

"I have no intention of provoking the godslayer," Pakram said. "I just want to take my wife home."

"She's gone," Arthur said. Pakram frowned at that. A strange expression twisted his face. His eyes were wide and glassy, as if he couldn't understand exactly what was happening around him.

"But I can't just leave her here," said the god pathetically.

"Fine," Arthur snapped. He took a step so he was shielding Alfred. "Take her and go."

The god did as he was told. He scooped up the headless corpse, and for a moment looked around the tower like a child searching for the broken part of a toy.

"You won't find her head," Arthur said. "It was blasted to pieces."

Pakram continued to look, but eventually seemed to come to the same conclusion as Arthur. When he was finally gone, Arthur collapsed. Alfred managed to catch him, but sank to the ground under his weight. He turned to the heap of daemons. For the most part they lay still. Gilbert and Francis fussed about them, then came to join Alfred.

"Aren't you going home?" Alfred asked.

"I don't think they'll take to kindly to us," Francis said.

"Committing high treason tends to make things awkward," Gilbert added.

"So what now?" Alfred asked.

The gods exchanged a look and shrugged.

The morning sun was raising high, burning off the autumn chill. Alfred looked across the ruins of Drachma and over to the small huddle of caravans. Already they were dispersing, headed out on the winding paths of the southern plains.

"What will happen to the survivors?" Alfred asked. "They've lost everything. No home, no city, families torn apart…"

Francis joined Alfred in staring across the ruins. "If there's one thing I've learned about humans, it's that they're certainly resilient creatures. Some will probably return to the city to rebuild, others will find a new place with the nomads. Everyone has lost someone today, and people will search out others to fill the holes in their hearts."

Gilbert nodded. "The southerners value family ties more than most people, but that means that every loss hurts more. For every mother who lost a child, there's going to be an orphan who needs a home. They'll find each other."

"You really believe that?" Alfred asked.

"They will if we help them," Gilbert said. "Nothing will make up for we've lost today, but we can make sure no one ends up alone."

"And what about us?" Alfred asked after a moment of silence. "We've lost our home, our family…"

"I suppose we have to take care of our new friends then," Francis said, poking Arthur. Arthur blinked sleepily at Francis and managed to kick him in his already bruised ribs.

"Oof," Francis grunted. "Fine, I will leave you and attend to more grateful charges."

Francis and Gilbert stood and walked back towards the heap of daemons, leaving Alfred and Arthur alone. Time passed in companionable—if exhausted—silence. Arthur drifted in and out of dozing, and after everything that had happened, Alfred wasn't going to bother him with conversation.

Alfred watched the caravans disperse into the plains. What had once been the brightest city in the world lay abandoned. While the tumbled tower their little group gathered on seemed stable enough, every so often, there would be a roar and sloshing as the sinkhole devoured more of the city.

There was no other sound in sunken city but the breeze rushing over water. Alfred took a moment just to listen. He'd never be trapped away from the living wind again. He'd never have to be away from any of this again.

Perhaps he hadn't lost his home after all.

* * *

When Arthur finally woke from his dozing, it was afternoon. Alfred smiled down at him.

"Hi," he said.

Arthur hummed in response.

"How are you feeling?" Alfred asked.

"Terrible," said Arthur. He tried to sit up, and only managed to with Alfred's help.

He looked terrible, Alfred thought. He shook like a leaf just sitting up. Under his eyes were heavy bruises, though those were hard to see under the layers of grim on him. Alfred probably wasn't much better, he realized.

Indeed, his own clothes were stiff with dried mud and soot. His throat was raw and he felt the tingle of a cough in his throat.

"Me too," Alfred said. That got a chuckle out of Arthur.

Alfred joined him, then broke out in deep, painful coughs.

"But we're alive," Arthur said. "That's…"

"Surprising?" Alfred finished. "You're telling me."

Arthur looked at Alfred frowning. "I'm still not entirely sure what happened."

Alfred stared out at the lake. He wasn't sure he could describe it himself. After a few moments of silence, he tried.

"I just…couldn't," he said lamely.

"Couldn't what? Kill us?"

"Right."

Arthur looked down, his cheeks flushing. Alfred felt the same warmth on his face and looked away. Arthur shifted, his face falling.

"Because we're innocent. And I know how much you love protecting the innocent," Arthur said. There was an odd note of bitterness in his voice. Alfred considered that.

"No," he concluded after some thought. "I mean, it's not that you're wrong, but that's not why I did it."

Arthur jerked up at that. He looked tired and more vulnerable that Alfred had ever seen him.

"Then why?"

"Because I couldn't hurt you."

Their eyes met, and Alfred could feel the heat growing in his face.

"I couldn't face a world without you in it."

"You're disgusting," Arthur said, though he smiled. The conversation seemed to have already sapped the daemon's energy. With a sigh, he curled up against Alfred and went back to sleep. This time, his breathing was even and he looked, if Alfred was reading his expression correctly, content.

Alfred drew Arthur fully into his lap and knotted his fingers in his hair. There was no reason for them to be apart now. No sides of a pointless war to fight for.

Since the day of his birth, Alfred had been on a path, and everything thing he did was just one more inevitable set along it. But now, for the first time, he was free.

They all were.


	28. Epilogue: Tears at the Seams

It was strange how little the absence of the gods seemed to affect the world. Everywhere, life went on much as it had, even in Aenea.

For the little town of Albion, the only thing that had changed was their inn gained a few more long term residents. As the balance of power slid back to normal in the mountains, the forces from Aenea grew more concerned with collecting taxes than enforcing religious doctrine.

The change didn't make them any more popular with the locals.

The world seemed to breath a collective sigh of relief at the end of an age long conflict. But despite the good cheer and safer travels, murmurs were exchanged only in the safety of a well lit common room.

Though it varied in the telling, a few details were consistent. Children and animals vanishing without a trace. Water running uphill. Fires spitting frost instead of sparks. And worst of all, tales of monstrous creatures stalking the shadows.

It was worse the farther south you went. The nomadic tribes strayed farther and farther from their traditional paths. Sometimes an entire caravan would go missing for weeks, only to be found as if no time had passed.

In the center of it all was the abandoned city of Drachma. Though plenty of time had passed, no one had started rebuilding. Those who ventured into the boneyard of broken buildings and were seen again swore by both the gods and the daemons that it was haunted.

But warm and full in the golden glow of the hearth fire, such things could be laughed off. And ignored as wild imagination or too much drink. Here, in the warmth of friendship and good company, one could pretend not to notice what was happening.

Something was tearing at the seams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final A/N: And that, ladies, gentlemen, and individuals of mysterious and indistinct gender, is how you finish a motherfriggin book.
> 
> As you can tell from the all the loose ends in the story (the big ones being She Who Sleeps Below and the stuff implied in the epilogue) the story is far from over. Unfortunately, it's over in this format. I'm not going to be writing the next part of the story as fanfic. I'm going to rework this fic to be completely original and then write the sequel(s) from there. If any of my lovely readers are interested in following that project, feel free to follow me over at my tumblr: Kitsungari.tumblr
> 
> And finally, I want to thank every one of you who read, favorited, and/or left a comment on my story. I couldn't have done it without you! I love you all, and I'd love to talk to anyone about writing. Just message me here or on tumblr.
> 
> Farewell for now!


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